Take a Chance and Roll the Dice
by SolarRose29
Summary: Collection of drabbles, one shots, and ficlets from a writing challenge. Contains multiple seasons and multiple genres.
1. Chapter 1

Okay, so I wanted to stretch myself a little as an author. So I signed myself up for a writing challenge using a list of 31 spoopy prompts off tumblr. While I didn't write every single day, or follow the prompts exactly, it was still loads of fun and good practice. And I know Halloween is over but as Sam once said, everyday of the Winchester's lives is Halloween so I figure it's ok to post these in Nov.

Title from This is Halloween by Tim Burton

* * *

Dean hates being home alone. Home being used as a very loose term, of course. It's not that he's worried something could sneak up on him. He sets salt lines every night. If there is a creature that can get past salt, he's got the sawed off by the bed. If that doesn't kill it, he's got a silver knife under his pillow. And if it can't be repelled by salt, iron, or silver, either he'll kick it's butt with his bare hands or he'll be dead by morning. No, there's not much that scares him anymore. Twenty-three and he's pretty sure he's already seen everything. No, it's not the thought of a ghost, wendigo, or werewolf that keeps him up at night. Literally.

There's just something about being the only one in the room that prevents him from drifting into sleep. He sits on motel bedspreads, ignoring the itch under his skin, and scans through the same dozen television stations at a rate of thirty-six per minute from dusk till dawn, volume turned to maximum. Occasionally, the faceless banging on the wall from the neighbors forces him to lower it. But some nights, there are no neighbors. No one in the room next to him. No one in the room with him. Just Dean Winchester in a motel room with two beds and a tv in the corner.


	2. Chapter 2

Dean knows he knows what to do. When something like this happens, he's supposed to call for backup. Except that his cell lost battery power yesterday. Not that it was a great loss since he didn't have a signal. So, no way to call for help. And no way to go for help. Baby's gone. The last he remembers having her was parking her on the edge of this wilderness, just to keep the sand out of her engine.

Scrape, crunch, shift, slide.

His shadow is short and to the right of him. But he can't quite remember what that's supposed to mean. Evening or morning? Actually, everything's been getting a bit hazy in his mind. He tries to repeat the important stuff-his name is Dean Winchester, he's hunting a chupacabra. Or he was. He did?

Scrape, crunch, shift, slide.

Tongue like a dead fish on the floor of his mouth. Throat scratchy and raw. His skin is blistering now. He shouldn't have ditched his jacket. But some cactus somewhere in this godforsaken place is enjoying it. His leg cramps and he collapses. He gets sand in his pants when he massages the cramping muscle.

The sun crests the horizon and if Dean could shoot it, he would.

More pitiful than anything else, a clump of trees provides him with just enough shade to justify laying with his face in the sand. His head pounds, but from several floors away and that suits Dean just fine. When he does finally move, dizziness decides to kick him while he's down and he nearly pitches forward and brains himself on a miserably skinny tree trunk. But he catches himself, because even stuck in the desert for...two, maybe or...yeah, two-three? days, he's still awesome. Then he takes a leak for the first time in a long time and he knows it's not supposed to be that color and something is definitely wrong.

Scrape, crunch, shift, slide.

Ok, maybe it's not a chupacabra. Maybe it's some kind of spirit. Native American maybe? Snatched him right out of his car. Zapped his butt here and is slowly feeding off him. Sucking away his energy, his ability to think straight, his reasoning and motor skills. Draining the life from him.

He turns around and now his shadow is on the left. Baby wasn't in that direction so he'll go in the opposite one. He's bound to run out of desert eventually, right? If only he could remember where north is and how to find it.

Sometimes, he's not sure he's on Earth anymore. The sand stretches on too far. There's no way this is America, much less the same state Sam ran away to. Could be that one planet Luke Skywalker was from, the desert one.

He's got his gun. Checks it for bullets. He's got his cell. Checks it for service. None at the moment but that's fine. He'll keep trying.

Scrape, crunch, shift, slide.

After a while, he's not so thirsty. Stops sweating too.

This is really not good. Sand to the left and to the right and up and down and never ending, all around, ever present. He needs water. Water above anything else. Needs it bad.

Forget the beach. Even hot chicks in bikinis can't really make up for the nuisance that is sand. It's in his eyelashes, and his hair, on the surface of his molars. In his pocket and down his boots, between his shirts and pressing into his skin.

Heartbeat echoing in his ears. Quick, fast, rapid. His breathing too, short and fast gasps. He's nearly used up the last of his energy. Can't keep dragging his overheating body through the endless sea of sand while the brutal sun beats down on him.

Dad will find his corpse. Burn it. If the sun doesn't already do it for him. And Sam will cry-no, he won't because he'll never find Dean because he's at…

Scrape, crunch, shift, slide. Scrape, crunch, shift, slide. Scrape, crunch, shift, slide.


	3. Chapter 3

"I secretly decorated the whole bunker in spooky things while you were out! Surprise!"

Sam blinked, and not just to clear the fake spider webs from his eyes. Dean stood below him, arms outstretched and a silly smile on his face. Glittery bats swung from the ceiling, while paper witches flew between them on paper brooms. Beady eyed crows glared from the corners and spiders climbed the walls. Pumpkins leered at him from his seat in the library. Dean had been busy. Everywhere Sam looked, there was evidence of cartoonish decor. Grinning skulls and black cats. Zombies and skeletal trees. Ghosts and vampires. A headless horseman charged down the staircase. Sam almost turned and went right back out the door.

"What do you think?" Dean's prompt stopped him and he sighed heavily before coming down to join his brother, the headless horseman right beside him.

"I think you just wasted a whole lot of time and money," Sam stated smartly, following the hall lit by a seizure-inducing strobe light.

"Come on, Sam. It's kinda awesome, right?" Dean cajoled.

Sam shook his head, ignoring the table covered in plastic organs stabbed with plastic knives. When he opened the fridge to put away the groceries, a recorded scream blasted him in the face. He merely rolled his eyes. "You know I've never liked Halloween."

"I know. But I thought maybe this could be the year we finally changed that," Dean murmured, face suddenly earnest.

Sam softened despite himself. "What did you have in mind?"

The grin that took over Dean's face was well worth it. "Ok, I've still got a ton of pumpkins left. I figure we can do some carving, then make ourselves sick eating candy while watching a classic horror marathon."

"Alright. Let me grab a quick shower first."

Sam left the kitchen and went down a hallway graced with eyeballs and mummy stickers. It really wasn't so bad. He could put up with all the stupid, cheap junk for a couple days, if it meant Dean had a chance to enjoy something. He opened the door to his room and all charitable thoughts fled his mind the instant he saw the clowns.


	4. Chapter 4

"No. We can not dress up, sit still on the porch and grab kids when they go to ring the bell," Sam stated, face set in stone.

"Come on. It'll be fun!" Dean cajoled.

"This isn't even our house, Dean," Sam shot back.

Dean sighed and flicked the curtain closed. "I swear, you have no sense of humor."

"Scaring little kids isn't funny," Sam argued.

"It's Halloween! Halloween is all about scaring kids!" Dean protested.

Sam merely shot him one of his patented 'you-are-an-idiot' looks.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Fine. We'll just wait in here for hours. Doing nothing. Awesome."


	5. Chapter 5

His heart beats. So does hers, almost like an echo. Wherever he goes, she goes too. His shadow, his invisible companion. Her mother always tells her not to get too close. Don't let him see her, don't alert him to her presence. But she can't help it. She drifts nearer to the building where he goes to eat. She crosses the parking lot and hovers just outside the door where he sleeps. The salt keeps her from going further.

He nearly catches her. Once when he's coming out of the place that smells like death. And again when he's going into the room where he sleeps. He stops mid-step, muscles tensing, breath holding. Looks around like he's heard a noise. He hasn't though because she doesn't make noise.

It won't be long before he leaves. He'll leave suddenly, just like he arrived suddenly. She wishes she could go with him. Follow his pain and his loneliness, so like hers. She wonders what it would be like. To float behind the growling beast he drives, leave this city and all its bad memories behind.

He has bad memories. She can feel them. He thinks about them, often. Dwells on the hurt, like tugging on a loose thread until the sweater unravels, just so the string isn't dangling anymore. She drinks in his misery, just like her mother taught her.

It's scalding coffee on the tongue and brushing a hand against a stove top burner. It's maroon bruises and deep lacerations. It's unanswered phone calls and slammed doors, harsh words and dragging silence. It's holding on till knuckles bleach white, pulled in opposite directions, straining, giving, desperate. Left behind. Alone.

When he leaves, she goes back to her mother. Yes, she fed. She gorged on the mysterious drifter. Stuffed herself full of ache and need and want. Empty.


	6. Chapter 6

"You acted all tough about this haunted house but now that we're actually here, you won't let go of me, and would you please stop shrieking." Dean glared down to where Sam's hands, already large for his twelve year old body, were clutched to his wrist.

"I'm not shrieking," Sam defended, immediately dropping Dean's arm.

"Then what do you call it?" Dean asked, casting the flashlight around the room.

Sam crossed his arms. "I was just...caught off guard."

Dean chuckled. "That plastic clown scared you, didn't it?"

"I'm not afraid of clowns!" Sam insisted, stomping his foot.

"Alright, alright. Whatever you say." Dean rolled his eyes and ducked through the doorway into the next room.

Sam was hesitant to follow. "Come on, Dean. Let's just go. There's nothing here."

Dean shook his head. "We don't know that yet."

"Those people probably didn't actually see anything. They just spooked themselves," Sam tried.

"I'm not leaving until I know for sure that this place is nothing more than a waste of money," Dean insisted.

"Dean," Sam whined, "What's Dad going to say when he finds out that you dragged me to a haunted house that might actually be haunted?"

That made Dean pause. But only for a moment. He rolled his shoulders, tossing aside the unpleasant possibilities Sam's question brought up. "You were the one who begged me to bring you along in the first place. Besides, it's like you said. There's probably nothing here."

"Uh, Dean? That doesn't look like nothing." Sam's voice was suddenly high and timid.

Dean swung his light around, illuminating Sam's pale face before following the skinny finger that pointed to the apparition flashing in and out of sight at the far end of the room.

"Get behind me, Sam," Dean directed, placing himself between his brother and the ghost. To Dean's surprise and relief, Sam slid into position, now quiet and submissive. "Hold this." He handed the flashlight to the younger boy before grabbing the iron rod, which he'd stolen from Dad's weapons stash, with both hands.

The ghost disappeared and Dean frowned, glancing around the cheaply decorated room for any sign of it.

"Dean!"

Sam's frantic call spun Dean around. The ghost was sailing straight at Sam, having manifested behind the pair.

"Sammy, duck!"

Sam instantly dropped and Dean swung the iron bar through the air, directly into Sam's would-be attacker. The spirit screeched and dissipated.

Keeping a sharp eye out for the ghost's return, Dean reached down and hauled Sam to his feet. "Okay, let's go. We know there's something here. I'll tell Dad about it and he can take care of it."

"But Dean-" Sam started to protest.

"No buts. That dead girl was coming right for you and I'm not going to let her-Sam!" Dean cut himself off when Sam was yanked out of his grip by an invisible force.

The spirit's power pulled Sam across the floorboards, into the wall on the far side of the room. Sam groaned, fingers releasing the flashlight. The light rolled, sending odd shadows bouncing over the ceiling. Dean sprang into action. He sprinted over to his brother, scooping up the fallen light on his way, and examined him for injury.

"Are you okay?" he demanded.

With a grunt, Sam nodded. "I think so."

"We need to get out of here. Come on, Sammy." Dean got Sam upright, more gently this time, but still with a sense of urgency.

His next breath was a puff of white and Dean instinctively brought the bar up in time to ward off the newly appeared ghost. Sam gazed up at him with admiration and Dean couldn't help the satisfaction that rushed through him in response.

"Let's go," he said, grabbing Sam's hand in his own and leading the way back out of the Halloween attraction.

They made it outside without further incident but Dean refused to release Sam's hand, or slow their pace, until the house was no longer in sight. Only then did he let go, bending forward and bracing his palms on his knees. Sam was panting next to him. When Dean turned his head to the side and caught his eye, Sam grinned at him.

"Holy smokes, Dean!"

Dean laughed hesitantly.

"That was awesome!" Sam exclaimed.

"You really think so?" Dean asked, not expecting such a reaction.

Sam nodded vigorously. "That was a real live ghost! Well, technically all ghosts are dead. But I saw my first ghost! And it was all vvveeerrr and you were all swoosh and it went poof!"

A smile stole over Dean's lips at Sam's enthusiastic reenactment of their night's activities. "See? I told you there was something in there."

Sam paused, face becoming sincere. "Yeah, you were right. And thanks for, you know, bringing me along."

Dean threw an arm around his shoulders, drawing Sam subconsciously closer. "This is just the beginning, Sammy. You'll be out there hunting wendigos and rugarus in no time."

"With you?" Sam asked shyly, looking up at Dean through his bangs.

"With me," Dean promised.


	7. Chapter 7

"What's that supposed to be? A self-portrait?" Dean mocked, escorted into the little one-story rental house by a gust of wind.

A few stray leaves, brown and crinkly, were caught in his hair and he brushed them away impatiently, letting them drop in front of the weird metal container by the door that Sam always claimed was an umbrella stand. Personally, Dean didn't believe such a thing existed, much less that one had been left by the house's previous tenants. He unzipped his oversized jacket and hung it on one of the coat hooks in the entryway. Those he did know how to use.

On the dining room table, clearly visible from the front door, sat a miserable looking pumpkin. Seeds and stringy innards splattered the tabletop. The handle of a large knife peeked over the haphazardly cut top of the gourd, blade visible in the gaping holes left by the unskilled fingers that had wielded it. Dean frowned sympathetically at the mangled carving. Lopsided eyes and a misshapen nose hung suspended above a gouge that could be only generously labeled as a mouth.

"It's not a self-portrait!" came an indignant shout from the direction of the kitchen.

"Are you sure? Cuz it looks just like you!" Dean hollered back.

The faucet turned on, the telltale gurgle and spurt that was just one of this house's many charms. Dean kicked off his shoes, leaving them in the middle of the floor as he went closer to inspect the abused pumpkin.

"Hold on. Is this Dad's knife?" Dean yelled, plucking the weapon from the pumpkin corpse. "You know he's going to kick your-"

A clatter, a thump, and the distinct shattering of glass. Dean instantly dropped the knife, threat unfinished and forgotten as he raced into the kitchen. Beside a knocked over chair, Sam lay in a heap, white pieces of a broken dining plate scattered around him.

"Sam, what happened?" Wary of the shards, Dean picked his way through the mess to Sam, grabbing his little brother's arm and pulling him to his feet. That was when he saw the blood. He snatched Sam's hand and used the edge of his shirt to wipe away the excess blood to determine where the injury was. There was a deep gash in the palm of Sam's left hand. "You're bleeding," he said needlessly.

"Duh. Why do you think I was trying to get a bandaid?" Sam snapped, trying to yank his hand away. But Dean's grip was too strong.

"You got this from using Dad's knife, didn't you?" Dean accused.

Sam wriggled in Dean's hold. "Let me go."

"This is why you're not supposed to touch his stuff!" Dean said.

Finally, Sam managed to free himself. He held the wounded hand protectively close, taking the dish towel off the counter and pressing it over the cut. "It slipped," he muttered defensively.

"Well I sure hope your stupid pumpkin is worth all this because Dad is going to be-" Dean started.

"It's not stupid!" Sam cut him off. "It's for a contest. I'm going to win."

"With that ugly thing?" Dean tilted his head to indicate where the pumpkin sat down the hall. "Yeah right. Keep dreaming."

Sam's forehead wrinkled, eyes squinting and mouth turning down at the corners. "I could."

"They're going to think it's in the wrong spot on the fourth grade table. They'll tell you to go put it with the kindergarteners," Dean sneered.

"You're mean!" Sam declared, stomping out of the kitchen.

"What? I'm just saying, it's better for you to hear it from me now than to embarrass yourself in front of the whole school," Dean called after him.

"Shut up!"

Dean gingerly kicked aside the largest bits of the broken plate with his stocking feet, then righted the chair and reached up into the cabinet Sam couldn't. With bandaid in hand, he went back to the dining room table, where Sam was stubbornly perched on the chair, tongue sticking out between his lips as he struggled to finish his project one handed.

"What are you doing?" Dean sighed.

"This has to be ready by tomorrow morning or I can't enter the contest," Sam explained without taking his eyes off his task.

"You're going to cut your hand off, dummy," Dean scolded.

Sam didn't stop. "It's not done yet."

"You're going to get blood all over that," Dean tried.

"Then it'll look even scarier," Sam countered.

"Sam, just stop," Dean said.

Sam glared at him. "No. I have to finish this tonight."

"It's getting late, you're bleeding, and I honestly don't think there's any way you can fix your pumpkin," Dean listed off.

Ignoring him, Sam clumsily jabbed the knife into the side of the pumpkin.

"Sam," Dean said. "Sam."

"Leave me alone. I need to concentrate," Sam growled.

Dean threw up his arms. "Why do you care so much about this? It's just a stupid contest."

Sam didn't answer right away. His eyes flicked up to Dean before dropping back down. "Because I've never won anything before."

His annoyance melted away at that and Dean tapped Sam's shoulder to gain the boy's attention. "Here." He held out the bandaid. "Put that on. I'll handle the knife. Just tell me what you want it to look like."


	8. Chapter 8

"You just walked through a bunch of fake cobwebs and even though you know they were fake, you're still making me do an extensive spider check."

"You can never be too careful, Sammy."

"Ugh. I hope no one sees us right now. I don't even want to know what this looks like."


	9. Chapter 9

"Sam? Sam!" Dean's throat was sore from days of yelling with no answer.

Blackness blurred the edge of his vision, stealing across his sight and dipping his hearing underwater. Forced to a stop, Dean paused in his tracks, fighting off the pull of unconsciousness. Whether it was from the past three days without sleep, or the lack of food in his stomach, or the overwhelming worry that had plagued him since Sam's disappearance, Dean couldn't say but there was no way he was going to faint. Fainting was for chicks. Not for older brothers whose little brothers vanished from their hotel rooms without a trace.

It was definitely related to the hunt. Dean had no doubts about that. The problem was, he didn't know what they were hunting. Spirit, shapeshifter, demon. Any one of about a thousand things that went bump in the night. This case had gone to hell in a handbasket before they even started. After driving for thirteen hours, Dean had called it a night, pulling into the first motel he found once they crossed the city's limits. The plan was to go to the police station first thing in the morning, get the local LEOs perspective before going and conducting interviews with the victims' families.

Only Dean had woken up to the sun in his face and an empty bed across from his, pillows abandoned and covers rumpled. He had wasted precious time assuming Sam had gone for coffee. Now whatever this was had, not only the element of surprise, but also a huge head start on him.

His low level anxiety had skyrocketed once the other victims started showing up one by one. All torn to shreds. He wouldn't let himself imagine Sam falling prey to the same demise. Sam, captured and alone, tortured and mutilated, and then tossed out onto the street like common garbage for the cops to find. As soon as it changed from a missing persons case to a string of brutal murders, Dean had begun the task of turning the city upside down for his brother.

But the hours dragged on and he had no leads. No clues. No witnesses. No idea where to start looking, other than everywhere. Offices and libraries. Cluttered warehouses and empty apartment buildings. Courthouses and grocery stores. And, once he finally worked up the courage, the hospital and the morgue. Dead ends at every turn. He called Bobby, but there was hardly anything the old hunter could do from eleven hundred miles away.

Desperation growing, Dean followed a suspicious tug in his gut. For all he knew, it could have been the hunger talking. But something told him to go to the cemetery. So there he was, in the middle of the night, stalking through the gravestones, screaming like an idiot while the wind punished him with bitingly cold blasts that cut straight through his jacket.

A rustling pulled his attention to the left. It wasn't the wind. Hope warred with caution in his mind as Dean swung his flashlight around, raising the gun in his other hand. The flashlight beam played over an ornate mausoleum. Carved angels pierced him with stone gazes as he stood waiting. There was shuffling, dirt scattering over stone. A figure rounded the corner and Dean aimed for the chest. Then recognition took over and the gun fell from limp fingers.

"Sammy," he breathed a second before rushing forward and enveloping his brother.

He drew back at Sam's quiet gasp. Maintaining a grip on his brother's shoulder, Dean ran his eyes up and down the tall frame. "Are you okay? Are you hurt? What happened?"

"I'm alright," Sam assured him, trembling in only his jeans and t-shirt.

"Here." Dean stripped out of his jacket, threading Sam's arms through it as if he was a child again.

Sam gazed at him with dewy gratitude. "Thanks."

"What happened?" Dean repeated, gripping Sam's elbow with one hand while scooping up his fallen weapon with the other.

"I-I don't...I don't really remember," Sam hesitantly confessed.

"You know what? It doesn't matter. The important thing is that you're back. Come on. Let's get you back to the motel. We'll tuck you in and watch Oprah reruns until we both cry. How's that sound, huh?" Dean babbled as relief flooded over him.

They began their trek back to where the Impala was parked at the front gate. When Sam stumbled, Dean pulled Sam's arm across his shoulder, taking his brother's weight and helping him the rest of the way.

"Hey Dean?" Sam said quietly, once he was safely bundled into the car and Dean was driving into town.

"Yeah?"

Sam licked his lips, twisted his hands in his lap. "Thanks for, you know, coming to find me. I knew you wouldn't give up."

Dean's eyes cut over to him briefly before returning to the road. "Yeah well. I'm getting real sick of waking up to find you gone," he complained gruffly to compensate for the warm feeling he got whenever Sam expressed his gratitude.

"I don't think you'll have to worry about that anymore," Sam smiled, eyes glowing in the headlights of a passing car. "I'm not going anywhere."


	10. Chapter 10

Obviously, this one is connected to the previous chapter.

* * *

Sam grunted, back colliding with the enormous stone mausoleum. The demon followed up the psychic push by slamming its host's hand over his mouth.

"Make a sound and I'll gut you," the blonde hissed.

The bald man beside her glared at Sam with black eyes before pressing himself close to the wall and peeking around the corner. The inhumanly strong grip on Sam's jaw prevented him from moving more than his eyes.

"Well, well. Look who's come to the rescue," the man muttered maliciously. He exchanged a wicked smirk with the blonde before turning his focus on Sam. As Sam watched in horror, the man shed his skin, peeling it off in gooey strips. When he was done, a perfect reflection of Sam stood in front of the real one.

"I know. Possessed shifter. That's a new one, isn't it?" the blonde gloated quietly. "Now. Here's how this is going to go. You're going to walk out there and let Dean help you back to your motel room. He'll cuddle you up in pillows and blankets and promise that the two of you will figure everything out in the morning. But you're going to tell him that you don't want to. That you need to leave. And you know what? Your brother will take one look at your big puppy eyes and he'll do whatever you say and you'll never come back to this town again."

Sam's brows furrowed in confusion.

"Not you you," the blonde conceded. "But still you." She tilted her pointed chin toward the shifter, who was shaping Sam's features into a mask of pathetic misery and guileless pain.

"Showtime," the doppelganger announced, sliding green over the blackness of his eyes before limping out into the graveyard.

"I'm a sucker for a good show. Come on, let's watch. What do you say, Sam?" The blonde took her hand away but flicked her wrist and Sam felt the invisible power immobilizing him.

She allowed him to turn his head enough to peek around the corner of the tomb but he couldn't move any other part of his body, or even make sound in his vocal chords. In front of him, Dean was helping the imposter into a jacket.

"You know, you were always so resentful, Sam," the demon whispered close to his face. "Truth is, you should have appreciated Dean when you had the chance. Now, you're never going to see him again."

Sam strained against the power holding him, desperate to warn Dean somehow. Perhaps by running after him, maybe even just grunting to draw attention. But the demon was too strong and Dean was unwittingly escorting a monster toward his car.

"Remember that whole scene I described earlier? About Dean leaving town?" the blonde taunted, breath tickling the shell of Sam's ear as she stood on tiptoes to reach him. "Yeah. I lied."

Sam's eyes widened.

"See, the truth is that my partner's not going to let Dean live through the night. They're going to pull up to the motel and Dean's going to help what he thinks is his brother into the room and then he's going to watch as you turn on him. You're going to eat him, Sam. You'll chow down on him and he's not going to lift a finger because he could never hurt his Sammy. And that will be the messy end of Dean Winchester." The demon's voice lifted in glee, ending in a high pitched giggle.

Helpless, Sam stared after Dean's retreating form, horror and panic taking over his mind.


	11. Chapter 11

"You're bleeding."

Surprised, Dean glanced down at himself. A dusky red stain was splattered across the front of his shirt but when he passed his hand down his torso, he felt no pain.

Genesis grabbed his right arm and turned it over, revealing the gash that ran the length of the underside of it.

"Wow. Would you look at that?" Dean pursed his lips, interested in examining the injury.

"Come this way." Threading her way through the destruction left in the wake of the confrontation with the malevolent spirit, Genesis led him into the other room. "Sit." She gestured to a chair at the kitchen table before rising on tiptoes to fetch the home first aid kit from the top of the refrigerator. When she joined him at the table, Dean was poking experimentally at the cut. She pushed his hands away. "Jacket off."

Dean raised his eyebrows suggestively. "Anything else you want me to take off?"

Genesis rolled her eyes and turned her attention to the case of bandages, antibacterial ointments, and painkillers she kept on hand.

"I don't think it needs stitches," Dean commented, gingerly removing his coat.

"Well, that's good because I don't have the supplies or the know-how to stitch anything," Genesis said, taking out a roll of gauze.

"If I really had to, I could do them one handed," Dean murmured. "'Course, normally I'd just have Sam do it."

"Your brother?" Genesis prompted.

Dean's head jerked up and he squinted his eyes at her suspiciously. "How'd you know that?"

Genesis tapped her temple. "Psychic. Remember?"

"Right." Dean leaned back in the chair. "If you're so good at your job, how come you couldn't take care of that poltergeist on your own?"

"Just because I knew what it was doesn't mean I knew how to get rid of it," Genesis retorted. "Now hold still." Keeping her gaze firmly on the gauze she was winding around his arm, she cleared her throat. "Thanks for that, by the way." The muscles in Dean's forearm twitched but he didn't pull away.

"There's no need to thank me."

"No, really. I'd like to pay you back somehow." Genesis flicked her eyes to him before dropping them back to her task.

"I don't do this for the money." Dean's tone made it clear he was repulsed by the idea of putting a price tag on saving lives.

"I was thinking of something a little different than money," Genesis began.

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the flirtatious smirk curling Dean's lips upward. "Oh really?"

Keeping the gauze in place with one hand, Genesis used her other to lightly smack his shoulder. "Something less physical, Dean."

He didn't contradict her but the smirk never left his face. After securing the bandaging with a couple pieces of medical tape, Genesis put the supplies back in the box but didn't bother taking the time to return it to its proper place. Instead, she beckoned Dean with a waving hand to follow her. They went back through the bead curtain, down the hall and stopped at the last door on the right.

"Don't laugh," Genesis ordered before opening the door.

The dimly lit room was empty, save for one chair set at a small round table.

"A crystal ball?" Dean scoffed, spying the object on the velvet tablecloth. "Are you kidding me?"

"I told you not to laugh!" Genesis snapped. "Besides, you of all people should open to this kind of thing."

"Look, I've come across a lot of things that aren't supposed to be real and found that they are. But hippies with crystal balls? They're always fake," Dean said, attempting to cross his arms before remembering one was injured. He dropped them to his sides instead and settled for adopting an arrogant lean against the door frame.

"No one likes a skeptic, Dean." Winking at him, Genesis slid into the seat with practiced grace. "I'm sorry I don't have a second chair. I'm not used to having company when I do this."

"Do what exactly?" Dean asked, arching a brow.

"Come here."

With an eye roll of his own, Dean stepped over to the table. "Where am I supposed to sit?"

"Just kneel," Genesis said impatiently.

He got on his knees, but only to appease the young woman across from him. She immediately took his hands, forming a circle around the edge of the table with their connected fingers.

"What do you want to know, Dean?" she inquired, voice low and quiet.

Dean tilted his head. "You mean, like, the winning lottery numbers?"

"Go deeper, Dean," Genesis pressed. "This is a once in a lifetime opportunity. The energies in my ball know the past, the present, and the future."

Dean hesitated.

"Everyone has something they want to know. Some question that keeps them up at night, haunts them for years. They're constantly searching for the answer but never find it. You have that chance right now," Genesis continued. "What's that burning question that leaps to the front of your mind when I ask you what you want to know?"

Barely meeting her eyes, Dean licked his lips. "Do they know-" his voice faltered. He paused, collected himself and tried again. "Can you tell me what happened to my mom?" he whispered.

Genesis lifted her chin, the corner of her mouth turned up nearly imperceptibly in encouragement, before she closed her eyes. After taking a deep breath, she leaned forward, squeezed Dean's hands in her own, and stared into the crystal ball.

A nursery with blue walls. Night sky visible between sailboat curtains. Shelves with stuffed rabbits and toy cars. A dresser and moon shaped night light. Airplane clock stopped at eight twelve. Baseball mobile above a crib. Crying baby and a silhouette standing over him. Splitting skin and blood welling, dripping, falling. Infant tongue lapping, licking, drinking. Yellow eyes and screaming. Fire. Fire. Fire.

"Dean!"

Dean gasped, eyes flying open. Genesis was pulling at him, trying to get him to sit up. When had he fallen? There was the nursery. It was Sam's. The baby with the curls and the blood in its mouth was-it couldn't, had to be-must have been Sammy. And some _thing_ , a dark shadow-evil-and Mom….

Putting one hand to his forehead, Dean slapped away Genesis' well intended help with his other hand. He rolled feebly to his side and staggered up onto his knees. He tried to recall exactly what he'd seen in the vision or whatever the hell it was. He might have the very clue his father had been spending the last twenty years searching for. Finally, this was his chance to understand the tragedy that had haunted his family. Screwing his eyes shut, he searched back through what the crystal ball had shown him. His mother, whimpering. He shook his head slightly. His mother screaming. Focus, he told himself. His mother bursting into flames.

He clutched his head and jerked away from the palm Genesis laid on his shoulder blade. But the image wouldn't go away. Mom pinned to the baby blue wall. Mom sliding across the ceiling. Mom leaking blood through her nightgown. Mom screaming. Mom burning alive.

"Make it stop," he groaned.

"What? Dean, what happened? What did you see?" Genesis was asking, alarmed.

Scream. Blood. Pain. Fire. Pain. Blood. Scream. Fire. Pain. Scream. Blood. Fire. Fire. Fire. Fire.

"Make it stop! Stop! Take it back! I don't want to know!" Dean howled.

Cool fingers against his temples. He tried to get away, the fire was still burning, still eating away at his mother, still burning her alive, but the grip was firm and then there was white light. Strong and good and pure and blinding him to the blood, evil, pain, fire.

"Dean? Are you awake?" Genesis stroked his cheek when the hunter's eyelashes fluttered.

He blinked a few times before succeeding in focusing on her. "Wha-?"

"Take it easy," Genesis coached when he sat up too fast and made himself dizzy.

"What happened?" he asked, glancing around the room.

"You don't remember?" Genesis queried.

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose then trailed his hand down to rub absently over his injured arm. "You were going to show me something in the crystal ball." He frowned. "Did it work?"

Genesis bit her lip. "It did but..."

Dean got to his feet, wavering for only a second. "But what?"

Genesis stood as well. "Whatever it showed you was so horrible, it was hurting you."

"Hurting me?" Dean repeated doubtfully.

"Physically hurting you," Genesis reaffirmed with a regretful nod. "You were begging me to make it stop."

Dean's expression became pensive. "I really don't remember any of that."

"Dean, I'm sorry. I never should have exposed you to the power of the ball like that," Genesis blurted. "I forgot how intense it can be for a normal person."

"No, no. It's okay. Not your fault," Dean assured her automatically, lost in thought.

"Dean-" she stared.

He interrupted her. "Genesis. Could you do it again? Whatever I saw, could you see it for me and just tell me about it? Like you do for your clients?"

"I don't think that's a good idea. Whatever it was, it was unbearably painful for you," Genesis argued.

"But part of that was just the effect of the energies, right?" Dean pushed.

"Dean, I-"

The ringing of a cell phone cut off her protest. Dean looked aggravated but fished the mobile device out of his jeans pocket. He answered it with annoyance. Then his eyes widened, his posture tensed and he was out of the room before Genesis knew he was leaving. She caught up with him in the kitchen, where he was tossing his jacket over his good arm.

"Yes sir. If I leave now, I can be there by midnight. Okay. Yes, sir." He flipped the phone shut and placed it back in his pocket.

"Who was that?" Genesis asked.

"I have to go," Dean said, brushing past her.

She hurried after him as he grabbed his bag from the living room. "Dean."

"The poltergeist should be gone, but if it hung on somehow, or if anything else strange happens, you have my number," Dean said, going to the front door and opening it.

"Dean, wait," Genesis tried again.

But Dean was already down the stairs and tossing his duffel into his classic car. He stopped long enough to give her a smile and a wave and then he was in the driver's seat and pulling away. Genesis stood on her porch until the Impala turned a corner and was no longer visible.


	12. Chapter 12

"Is it really that bad, Sam?"

"It's like opening your bedroom door and finding a spider in the middle of the floor."

"But spiders aren't scary."

"...It's like opening your bedroom door and finding a hellhound in the middle of the floor."

"Come on. Clowns don't rip you to shreds."

"I think we've already seen just how deadly clowns can be."

"Yeah but dude, have mercy on a cripple."

"Really? That's the card you're going to pull?"

"Sam, you know I can't drive with my busted foot."

"So why can't I just drive to-"

"I hurt my foot, not my head. There's no way I'm letting you behind Baby's wheel."

"Dean. Come on."

"Look, McDonald's is just across the street. I'm begging you, do this one tiny favor for me and I won't ask you for anything else ever."

"Selling your birthright for a hamburger? Sounds a little too Jacob and Esau for me."

"Who?"

"Don't you remember when Pastor Jim...you know what, never mind."

"So you'll do it?"

"Fine. But you're getting double laundry duty."

"Okay, sure."

"And I get control of the remote for as long as we're stuck in this dump."

"Yeah, whatever."

"And you won't ask for anything else while your foot heals?"

"Ugh, yes. Just go already! I'm going to die of starvation before you even get out the door."

"You'd better hope the crossroads demons never find out how eager you are to give up everything for a burger."

"Sam, if you're not out that door and across the street by the time I count to three, I swear I am going to kick your butt."

"With what? Your busted foot? Whoa. Hey. Wait, Dean. Dean, wait. The doctor said you're not supposed to be moving around yet. You don't want to permanently damage-hey! Stop it! Ow! Owwww!"


	13. Chapter 13

Carissa twisted her head and shifted her arm, attempting to find a more comfortable position. She was a self-identified morning person, she loved being up in the morning. Being up. Not getting up. There was a huge distinction between a cheerful attitude while vertical and cheerfully leaving the enormous, and generally hard-earned, comfort of sleep. She had fifteen minutes between her alarm going off and the actual time she needed to be up in order to make herself presentable enough that the preschoolers wouldn't scream at the sight of her unwashed hair and morning breath.

Maybe she should get up early. That would give her time to swing by that quaint coffee shop on the way to the daycare. And a latte with a heart in the foam always beat whatever dripped out of the Keurig taking up her limited counter space. Yeah, a latte sounded wonderful because it was exceptionally cold this morning. And...she was using her arm as a pillow because she didn't have her pillow because she wasn't actually on her bed and someone touched her shoulder and she jumped, screaming, because, despite all the helpful encouragement from her mother regarding the dating scene, she lived alone.

"Hey, hey. You're alright. I didn't mean to startle you."

Carissa became aware of three things simultaneously. One, she wasn't in her bedroom, or even in her own house. Two, the unfamiliar room she was in was a cramped and poorly lit set of four metal walls. Three, there was a stranger crouched next to her.

"Where am I?" she asked, once she'd finally gotten past her surprise enough to crabwalk to the wall farthest from the man, the room's only other occupant.

"I wish I knew," he replied, the corner of his mouth turning up ruefully.

"Who are you?" Carissa asked next.

"I'm Sam." The man gestured first to himself and then to her. "And you are?"

Carissa answered automatically. "Carissa." Then she wondered whether she should have given him her name. Maybe he was her kidnapper. Maybe she shouldn't give him any personal information.

"Carissa," Sam repeated politely. "It's nice to meet you."

Carissa opened her mouth but her next sentence was hijacked from her brain as soon as her eyes spotted the door. It was between her and Sam. She started running calculations in her head, trying to determine if she could make it out before he grabbed her. It was worth a shot. She gathered her legs beneath her and sprang to her feet, making a mad dash for the door. Sam raised an eyebrow but didn't appear upset by her sudden departure. Probably because, as she was in the middle of discovering, she couldn't get out. The door was not a regular door. Instead of a knob or a handle, it had a wheel in the center. She'd only ever seen pictures of doors like this, and they were always on a ship of some sort. She tugged on it, spinning it first one way and then the other.

"Yeah. I tried that already. It's locked," Sam said from behind her.

Suddenly embarrassed, Carissa stood with her back to him for a moment longer. Slowly, she turned around and found a seat to the side of the door, still maintaining a respectably safe distance from Sam.

"So I guess you're not the one who kidnapped me and put me in here?" she asked. "Wherever here is," she added.

Sam wasn't particularly offended by her question. "No. I'm stuck here too."

"Do you know who did this?" Carissa queried. "What they want? How long they plan on keeping us here?"

Sam shrugged. "I don't know."

Carissa bit her lip as panic gained momentum in her mind. A thought struck her and she started digging through her pockets.

"What are you looking for?" asked Sam.

"My phone," she said without looking up. "Maybe I can call the police, have someone come get us."

"I tried that already too," Sam sighed.

Carissa glanced up at him. He was holding her phone in his hand, though he did have the decency to look sheepish about it. "No signal."

He held it out for her to take and she cautiously reached out to take back the device. "You went through my pockets while I was unconscious?"

Sam winced. "When you put it like that...I really was just looking for your phone."

"Couldn't you have used your own?" Carissa snapped, uncomfortable with the fact that this guy had basically frisked her without her knowledge or consent, or even consciousness.

Sam gestured to the jeans and t-shirt he was wearing. "I don't have it. I don't have anything. Not even my wallet."

His stomach abruptly growled. In the quiet little room, it was more noticeable than it would have been otherwise.

Carissa arched a brow. "How long have you been in here?"

Sam shrugged. "It's hard to keep track of the time but if I had to guess, maybe a day and a half?"

Carissa absorbed that before asking, "How long have I been in here?"

"Not long," he assured her.

"But you saw when it happened, right?" Carissa pressed. "You were already in here so you must have seen who brought me in."

Sam dropped his head, sheepish again. "No. I was, ah, I was sleeping."

"You were able to fall asleep in here?" Carissa glanced around at the bare metal floor, the bare metal walls. "You must have been really tired."

"There's not much else to do," Sam defended wryly.

"Yay." Carissa closed her eyes and tipped her head back until it rested against the wall behind her. "This is just how I wanted to spend my Thursday. Being held prisoner in a metal box with some stranger." Realizing her words sounded more brusque than she anticipated, she popped open an eye to glance at Sam apologetically. "No offense."

"None taken." Sam lifted his hands, palms out, before dropping them to his bent knees.

Carissa flashed him a brief toothless smile before staring up at the metal ceiling. "This isn't how I pictured spending my weekend either."

"Hopefully we won't be in here that long," Sam said.

"Yeah. Hopefully," Carissa snorted.

"No, I mean, my brother. He's looking for me," Sam informed her earnestly. "Probably worried sick," he added in a murmur.

"How will he-"

A scrape of metal on metal interrupted Carissa's next inquiry. They both leaped up and Carissa was able to get her first glimpse of just how tall Sam was. When he was crouched down, he was a manageable height. Standing, he was a veritable giant. At only five one, Carissa was used to feeling short compared to most people. But Sam made her feel positively tiny.

The scrape was followed by a far away shudder beneath their feet. As she and Sam strained their ears, they caught a growl, a burble, and then the unmistakable tumble of rushing water. Sam let out a yelp and lifted his foot. His shoe was wet. Carissa looked past him. There, on the opposite wall from where she sat, was a grate. And water was pouring out of it at an alarming rate.

"What is that?" Carissa tilted her head.

"I think it's some sort of drain, maybe?" Sam ventured.

"This place just keeps getting better, doesn't it?" Carissa rolled her eyes and exchanged a smirk with Sam, two people sharing an unpleasant experience.

They didn't talk much after that, mostly because the water was so loud they had to shout to be heard above it. In spite of Sam's encouraging smiles, Carissa started to get worried when the water rose to her calves and showed no signs of stopping. Time passed and the water kept rising. It was to the middle of her thigh and she was growing more anxious with every inch it gained.

"Sam, what happens if the water doesn't stop?" she asked.

"There's no reason to think that it won't," Sam tried.

Carissa threw out an arm to encompass the half submerged room. "I think it's time to consider the possibility."

Sam pursed his lips and pushed his way through the water to the door. He fought with the wheel for a minute, grunting and straining. But it wouldn't budge. Carissa crossed her arms tightly, watching him with apprehension.

"Maybe there's a way we can, um, shut the grate," Sam suggested, going to the other side of the room. He got down on his hands and knees, keeping his head above the waterline. He gave Carissa a nod before ducking down to inspect the grate. A tense handful of seconds passed. Sam came up, shaking his head, wet hair slicked to his forehead.

"That's it. We're going to die," Carissa moaned, water lapping at her waist.

"We're not going to die," Sam countered.

The conversation ended there.

"Sam, we need to get out of here," Carissa eventually squeaked, cool water covering her shoulders.

"I know," Sam said, running his hands over the walls and the ceiling, (which, of course he could reach, the gigantor), searching for seams or a hidden exit or Carissa didn't even know what.

She knew it made her look ridiculous, like one of those darn kids old people were always complaining about being too attached to their electronics, and it wouldn't matter if she did end up dying in the metal room, but she was holding her cell phone up in the air, keeping it out of the water for as long as possible.

"There has to be something. Some way out…" Sam was muttering to himself.

Great, they were both losing their minds. Tears stung at Carissa's eyes. She swallowed them back. Sometimes, when she got together with her girlfriends, they'd all end up talking about stupid stuff, like which celebrity they would marry if they could, or how they wanted to die. Carissa had always said any way except drowning. She probably jinxed herself by saying that she didn't care how she went, as long as she didn't drown. Life was just too ironic sometimes.

Water slipped into her mouth between her lips and she sputtered on the unexpected liquid. "Sam!"

Sam whirled around and sloshed his way over to her. The water was only to his chest. The lucky duck. "Here, get on my back."

"What?"

"Come on. It'll help you keep your head above the water," Sam explained, turning to give her better access to his back.

Under any other circumstance, there was no way Carissa would have ever accepted a piggyback ride from a stranger, even one as attractive as Sam. But she'd rather not drown, and given the choice between dying or living, she knew which one she would pick.

"Are you sure?" she asked, lifting her chin to keep it above the water.

"Yes, of course. Now hurry!" Sam urged.

It was odd, being soaking wet and climbing on some random man, but the whole situation was strange anyway and Carissa was just grateful to be out of range of the water. Her relief was short lived. The water kept coming and there was nowhere to hide from it. They were trapped, no way to exit the room, no way to escape the flood. The water was now to Sam's neck. He grunted and shoved his way over to the wall, using it to brace himself as he stood on tiptoes. In so doing, he left only a few scant inches between the top of his head and the ceiling.

The faces of her friends and family were parading through Carissa's head. Staring down her inevitable end brought her thoughts to them, to all the things she had left unsaid. Who would miss her? Who would remember her? A young, single preschool teacher. What had she accomplished with her life? What would come after?

"Hey Carissa." Sam's voice pulled her from her gloomy musings. She glanced down, though she could only see the corner of his forehead, hidden behind a curtain of dripping hair. "I'm sorry."

"You're what?" Carissa asked, stiffening. Was Sam about to admit his guilt? That he really had set this whole thing up and was only playing the victim to catch her off guard? Maybe he was a psycho stalker that had fantasized about dying with her?

"I'm sorry that this is happening to you," Sam clarified. "No one should have to go out like this."

"You mean drowning in a metal box?" Carissa meant to laugh but it sounded like a sob, even to her own ears. She took a hand off his shoulder to wipe an errant tear from her eye. After clearing her throat, she said, "I'm sorry too."

When the water covered Sam's chin, Carissa pulled herself away from him. At his questioning look, she explained, "This way we can both tread water." For all the good it would do them. The unrelenting flood only needed to rise a handful of inches and the room would be completely submerged.

"So your brother," Carissa started.

"Dean," Sam supplied.

"You think he's going to be okay after you…" she hiccuped, "after you die?"

Sam pressed his lips together, his hand bumping against hers as they both struggled to remain afloat. "Your family is going to be fine. They'll miss you. They'll always miss you. But they'll be okay," he answered instead, somehow knowing what she was really asking.

Carissa's head knocked against the ceiling and she had to turn it sideways to keep her nose out of the water. She was crying but she gave him a nod and a tearful smile.

"Carissa, take a deep breath," Sam advised and then the water reached the top.

The light bulb was a strange, ethereal beacon in the murky water. Carissa could see it, though it was odd to see a light at eye level. She started sinking, and flailed her arms to keep herself higher. Not that it mattered. There was nowhere to go. Her hands bumped the ceiling and even though she knew what the situation was, she couldn't help the panic that overwhelmed her. To have the expectation to break the surface and then not be able to, was terrifying. Though she hadn't been counting, she knew it hadn't been more than a minute before her chest hurt, an aching pressure accompanied by a tightness in her throat. She thrashed around blindly, instinct prompting her to fight for her life. But there was no relief, no oxygen. Nothing but the water around her and the faint light and her arms slowing their movement and blackness crowding into her vision.

Suddenly, she was yanked downward, body spiraling and spinning. Falling, crashing. She hit the ground, opening her mouth reflexively though she had no air to cry out. The flow of water carried her farther, moved her quickly until she collided with something solid that halted her forward motion. The first thing she did was breathe, deep gasps that made her cough. It was only once she'd had enough to settle her demanding lungs that she opened her eyes. There was another strange man leaning over her, hands under her shoulders to help her sit up.

"Are you okay?" he asked insistently, hurriedly.

She had only just started to nod before he left her side, kneeling down in the still draining water. Carissa blinked rapidly, wiping at her eyes with her hand to clear the moisture from them. She sat up, sore and shocked, struggling to reconcile her current situation with the one she had anticipated with dread.

"Sam? Sammy! Sammy, wake up. Come on, come on, come on. Sammy!" The new arrival was pleading, and as Carissa shuffled closer on her hands and knees, she saw his hands fisted in the front of Sam's t-shirt, shaking him roughly. "No. No, no, no, Sammy. Sam!"

Sam's face was lax and his body flopped limply with the manhandling. The stranger's desperate expression crumbled and he curled forward, drawing Sam closer, heedless of what a sopping mess he was. The unfamiliar man touched his forehead to Sam's temple and Carissa looked away from the private gesture.

"Are you...Dean?" she asked quietly.

He didn't respond. Fresh tears welled and spilled over Carissa's lashes. She placed a light hand on the shoulder of the man she assumed to be Sam's brother. Sam jerked in Dean's grip.

Dean's head whipped up, and he yanked Sam out to arm's length, intently running his eyes over him. "Sam?" he breathed.

Sam spasmed again, this time spitting a mouthful of water down the front of his shirt. Dean's eyes lit up when Sam's fluttered open.

"Knew you'd find me," Sam whispered hoarsely.

Without hesitation, Dean slammed Sam to his chest, tightening his arms across his back. Sam groaned softly and Dean instantly released him.

"Sorry," he panted. "It's just...I almost-" He never finished the thought, left it for Sam to fill in. "You have got to stop disappearing on me, man. It's getting old," he said gruffly.

"What happened? How'd you find us?" Sam asked.

"Well, it wasn't easy," Dean said. "We were wrong. Chapel wasn't murdered. It really was an accident."

Sam's eyebrows rose. "So if this wasn't about revenge, what was it about?"

"Took me too long to figure it out." Dean glanced away. "I didn't put it together until," he waved a hand at Carissa, "he took her. She was the final clue. So I went back, did a little digging. Josh wasn't the only one who went overboard that night."

"His fiancee," Sam said.

Dean nodded. "His fiancee. Maria went overboard with him but they were able to rescue her. She survived, eventually married someone else. Had kids."

Sam and Dean turned to look at her meaningfully.

Carissa blinked at them in surprise. "Wait, are you talking about my mother Maria? What does this have to do with her? Who's Josh? What's going on?"

"This wasn't revenge. He just missed her," Sam murmured.

Dean nodded. "Once I had that figured out, all I had to do was find the boat. And of course, save your ass." He knocked a fist into Sam's bicep.

Sam smiled. "Thanks."

"Yes, thank you," Carissa added sincerely, giving up on getting answers from them about their earlier conversation.

Dean twisted his head over his shoulder to look at her. It took a moment but then a flirtatious smirk was stealing over his lips. "You know, I never turn down a lady who wants to demonstrate just how grateful she is."

"Dean," Sam hissed, clearly embarrassed.

Dean winked at Sam before turning his attention back to Carissa. It worked better than she thought, catching him off guard. By the time he was focused on her again, she was in his personal space and giving him a kiss because, why not? If it wasn't for him, she'd be dead. So sure, just this once, she'd kiss a stranger. It was the least she could do to repay him for the rescue. It wasn't a long kiss, a simple matter of lips on lips, and then Carissa stepped back. Dean blinked at her in surprise, while Sam snickered.

Carissa couldn't keep the self-satisfied smile off her face. "So. Who's ready to get out of here and dry off?"


	14. Chapter 14

I cocked my head to the side. Clearly, I had misheard my boss. "I'm sorry, you said you want me to capture who?"

Ah. So the answer was exactly what I had thought it was. But there just had to be a mistake in there somewhere.

"I don't think you realize exactly what it is you're asking of me."

Or maybe they did.

"Please, pick someone else. I'll do anything for you. Anything! Anything but this. Please."

I was not above groveling. I would rather beg and live than cling to my pride and die. But of course, I never really had a choice.

That's how I found myself in a meatsuit for the first time in over a century, standing on a street corner, eyes glued to the door of the coffeeshop a couple of buildings down. At least I wasn't alone, though my associate was just as apprehensive as I was. A lot of the folks downstairs thought we were paranoid, listened to too much gossip, or were blinded by our idolization. Look, I was excited about our prophesied boy king, sure. But that didn't mean I was wrong to be scared of kidnapping him and bringing him to my boss. He was a Winchester, for goodness sake! Even if we somehow managed to convince Sam, by choice or by force, to come with us, there was the small matter of his brother Dean. The very thought of that particular hunter made me shiver, curling into loops within the confines of my flesh container.

"There he is," said my partner.

I had been so distracted I hadn't noticed him exiting the establishment. But there was no mistaking the kid who stood head and shoulders above the rest of the humans.

"Let's go." My colleague moved down the sidewalk, swinging the hips of the girl she was riding around in.

I copied her movements, though they were far less graceful than hers. I trailed behind, expecting to simply follow him and wait for an opportunity to grab him. But my companion had other plans and before I could stop her, she was throwing herself forward, as if she'd caught her shoe in a crack on the sidewalk, somehow managing to fall in such a way as to knock into Sam on her way down. If I hadn't known better, I myself would have been fooled by the performance.

He whirled around, with coffee splashed across his hands and an irritated expression on his face. But he softened when he saw the pretty blonde with the form fitting dress on the ground. She was doing an impressive imitation of someone being apologetic and embarrassed.

"I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to! These stupid heels."

"It's okay," Sam assured her, bending down to help her up.

With a coffee cup in each hand, he was adequately hindered from that good deed. But that didn't matter. The blonde meatsuit climbed up shakily before uttering a convincing cry with her funny human voice, crumpling on her supposedly injured leg and reaching out for the closest thing to catch herself. Which just so happened to be Sam Winchester's arm.

"Again, I'm sorry. I'm not normally so clumsy. Or forward." I marveled at how she had such control of her possessed body as to make it blush on command.

"No, it's fine," Sam repeated.

"I'm Lindsay." A strawberry lip gloss smile and Sam was putty.

"Sam," he offered in return.

"It was nice to meet you, Sam." Lindsay trailed her fingers down his arm before pulling her hand away completely.

She tried to take a step but nearly collapsed again. Sam leaped forward, eager to catch her. She recovered just in time but batted her eyelashes regardless.

Sam swallowed. "Are you sure you're going to be okay?"

"I'd hate to be a bother…" Lindsay glanced away. "Especially since it looks like you have someone expecting you. I wouldn't want to keep her waiting." She looked back at him, nodding her head at the two coffee cups he was still holding.

"Her?" Sam echoed, confused. "Oh no. This is just for my brother."

"Well, I guess you should get back to your brother then. I'll manage. Thank you though." Lindsay limped away a couple of steps, letting a few whimpers loose.

Sam lasted all of ten seconds before he was hurrying to catch up with her. "You know what? He can wait."

"Are you sure?" Lindsay asked, pink lips pouting in concern.

"Oh yeah. He's still sleeping off last night's...fun," Sam informed her. "Lindsay, I think maybe you should go to the doctor. Get that ankle checked out."

"No, no. It's fine. I probably just wrenched it, is all. I don't think it's sprained. And I don't live that far," Lindsay said.

"At least let me make sure you get where you're going," Sam insisted.

Lindsay flashed him a set of blindingly white teeth. "Okay. Thanks, Sam."

I shadowed them as they made their way down the street, Lindsay leaning on Sam for support. This was going better than I had ever imagined. He was coming willingly. Perfect! My associate led him to the loft leased to her human form. I slipped in behind them, hearing Lindsay inviting Sam to sit on the couch. I climbed the stairs and peeked around the corner. There he was, completely unsuspecting.

In one smooth motion, I jumped around the edge of the wall and jabbed a needle into his neck. His eyes widened comically before rolling back in his head. He started to fall forward and I quickly pushed him sideways so that he landed on the couch cushions instead of the hardwood floor.

"Alright. We got him. Let's go." I clapped my hands together once, pleased with how easily this mission was progressing.

"There's been a change of plans."

"What?" The smile fell off my borrowed face.

Lindsay put her hands on her hips. "The boss is busy. Wants us to wait a bit before bringing him down."

"What?! Are you crazy? We can't keep him here. That sedative won't last forever. And his brother could be hunting us down right now!" I sputtered.

Even the beautiful mask of Lindsay Renee Burrow couldn't hide the hideous anger of my companion. "Those are our orders. We wait until the boss is ready to see him."

I wrung my pathetic human hands. "This is not good. This isn't what I signed up for."

"Tell me about it," Lindsay grumbled, settling into the armchair and crossing her long legs.

I couldn't relax enough to sit. What would the king do to those who kidnapped him? I had been banking on dropping him off with my boss and then getting out of there before he ever regained consciousness. He was never supposed to know it was me. But now? Now there was no way to know how the rest of this ill fated errand would go. And what would happen if his brother caught up with us? I twirled a strand of dark hair around and around one of the many fingers of this human girl.

The doorbell rang. I jumped. Lindsay froze. We stared at each other. The bell rang again. Neither of us moved. There was a crash, like a door being kicked down, and then heavy footsteps on the staircase, like someone in boots mounting them two at a time, and then Dean Winchester was standing in front of me, that legendary knife pointed right at my throat. I tossed up my hands in surrender.

"Hey!" he barked. "You. Sit back down. Don't move."

I didn't dare turn my head to look, so I could only assume that Lindsay had stood up. If she was smart, she'd do exactly as he asked.

"Where's my brother?" Dean snapped.

Maintaining their upheld position, I used the pointer finger of the right hand to indicate where Sam was drooling on the sofa. Dean followed my direction with his eyes only, keeping his body in a position to strike me down. As if that were necessary.

"Sam?" he called.

Sam didn't even twitch. Dean's eyes flicked back to me and they were hard as steel and just as friendly.

"He's only sleeping," I explained.

"Oh. Right. He decided he needed to catch up on his beauty sleep and thought this would be the perfect spot to do it," Dean mocked.

"It's the truth!" I insisted.

Dean snorted. "Demons telling the truth? What is this, opposite day?"

"We didn't want to hurt him," Lindsay spoke up.

The frown on Dean's face showed he still didn't believe us. "You're demons. You get off on hurting people."

"Not him," I interrupted. "Never him. We want to protect him."

"And kidnapping? That's your idea of protection?"

Lindsay shrugged. "Our boss wanted to talk to him."

"Who's your boss?" Dean demanded.

Luckily, Sam chose that moment to groan, saving us from having to answer. Dean glanced back and forth between him and us before settling on giving us a stern warning not to try anything unless we wanted to end up looking like diced tomatoes. He never turned his back on us fully, even when he knelt to inspect Sam.

"See? Not a scratch," I stated.

Dean merely glared at me before returning his attention to Sam. He called his name a few more times, tapped his cheeks, generally tried to rouse him. Eventually Sam woke up, disoriented but completely unharmed.

"Dude, why is it that you're attracted to all the wrong kinds of girls?" Dean asked as he helped Sam to his unsteady feet.

I reached out to assist but Dean waved the knife in my face, then at Lindsay. "The only reason you two aren't dead yet is because Sam can't stand on his own."

I sagged in relief.

"But don't think you're getting a pass," Dean growled. "Think of this as a head start. You took my brother. I can't just let that go. We clear?"

I waited just long enough to nod the meatsuit's head before I dropped her jaw and exited her. I got into the nearest air vent and got as far away as possible. Laying low was my only option because I knew I would never survive a second encounter with the Winchester brothers.


	15. Chapter 15

"Oh good. You're awake." Sam leaned back against the table, scrutinizing the demon tied to the chair in the center of the room.

Dean's head dipped slightly before he raised it, blinking slowly as he roused. His arms twitched in the restraints. The creak of ropes snapped him into full awareness and he jerked in his bonds.

"Do you really think it's going to be that easy to escape?" Sam snorted.

It took a moment but then Dean's gaze traveled over to him, filled with arrogance and resentment. "Had to try. You've been known to slip up before."

Sam tilted his head in agreement. "True. But not this time. This is too important for slip ups."

A chuckle came out of Dean's mouth, deep and derisive. "Oh Sammy. Sammy, Sammy, Sammy." Sam rolled his eyes at the nickname but didn't respond otherwise. Dean tilted forward in his seat with a condescending smile. "I know you think you're going to try and fix me. But did it ever occur to you that maybe I don't want to be fixed?"

"Fix you?" Sam interrupted. "Is that what you think this is about?"

Dean arched an eyebrow. "Isn't it?"

It was Sam's turn to laugh. "This has never been about fixing you."

"So all that time spent tracking me down, the demons you tortured, and oh, how about that poor bastard you tricked into selling his soul-all of that was just what? Your new hobby?" Dean snickered. "I gotta say, you're starting to take after your big bro." He flashed black eyes at Sam.

"I thought being a demon was supposed to affect your soul, not your intelligence," Sam quipped.

Dean fell silent a moment. "You want to use me," he finally said.

The corner of Sam's lips curled up. "I knew you'd get there eventually." He pushed away from the table, crossing his arms as he stood in front of Dean. "You really think I'd go to all that trouble just to get back a self-pitying, pathetic, clingy martyr?" He shook his head. "You know, when I first discovered you were gone, I wasn't even going to go after you. I figured Crowley was welcome to whatever sloppy leftovers he could squeeze out of your dead body. But when I heard it was all you in there, well, let's just say I had a change of heart."

"Did you hit your head recently? Or have you just been hiding how dumb you really are?" Dean adopted a more casual position, practically lounging in his bonds. "The King of Hell himself couldn't control me. What makes you think you can do any better?"

In response, Sam drew the demon-killing knife from the waistband of his jeans, passing it to his sprained hand.

"Ooh. What's that for? You going to tickle me?" Dean taunted.

Sam came closer, circling around to the back of the chair. "Something like that." Without warning, he snatched a handful of Dean's short hair, yanking his head back to expose his throat.

"Kinky, Sammy," Dean smirked.

"Oh yeah. We're going to have lots of fun," Sam shot back, slicing a shallow cut along the side of Dean's neck.

The blade's power trailed golden light as it split Dean's skin and he clenched his jaw, grunting with the pain. Sam leaned forward, dipping his head down to be level with Dean's, breath ghosting against the shell of his ear. Then he placed his mouth over the sluggishly dripping gash and latched on, sucking and drinking and lapping at the poisoned blood. Dean immediately jerked away. The fist in his hair kept him from gaining more than a few inches. Sam's mouth chased after him, closing the distance.

"Get off me!" Dean barked.

Sam didn't listen, eyes closed in pleasure as he continued drinking. Black flicking over the green in his eyes, Dean wrenched himself free and slammed his head back into Sam's. Sam stumbled, losing his grip on the knife. It scraped a fleck of paint off the devil's trap. It was just enough. Growling inhumanly, Dean surged up, snapping the ropes that bound him. The sigils were not completely impotent and he clenched his teeth as he forced his way through the invisible strength of the wards. Once free, he whirled around, muscles coiled for a fight. But Sam was slumped against the far wall, red smeared from his nose to his chin, splattered across his cheeks. His pupils were dilated and he was breathing heavily, a sated grin revealing blood stained teeth. Dean stood over him, repulsed and disgusted.

"I'm walking out that door. And the only reason I don't decorate this room with your guts right here and now is because I want you to know one thing. You owe me, Sam Winchester. Remember that. When I come to collect, and I will, you'd better be ready to pay up." He spun on his heel and crossed the room, careful to edge around the devil's trap.

Before he could reach the doorway, a vice clamped around him, halting him midstep.

"What the hell?" he muttered, glancing around for hidden sigils.

"You asked how I was going to do what Crowley couldn't."

Dean twisted his head look over his shoulder. Sam was back on his feet, hand outstretched, palm facing him. Slowly, triumphantly, Sam slid his other arm out of its cast. Dean's eyes widened.

"Thanks for the boost, by the way. I'm feeling a lot better," Sam said by way of explanation, unclipping the sling and letting it fall to the floor.

"No," Dean breathed.

Sam rolled his shoulders, keeping his gaze firmly on Dean as he retrieved the knife and stepped closer to him. "This is how I do it, this is how I control what Crowley can't."

"I'm no ordinary demon. This Mark on my arm-" Dean started.

"The Mark is in your blood," Sam interrupted. He made a show of licking his lips, tasting the last drops of blood that lingered there. "It's power is my power now."

"You're lying!" Dean snarled.

Sam tightened his hand into a fist. Dean collapsed onto hands and knees, air cut off. He could feel Sam, Sam's power, Sam's mind wrapping around him, around the mangled and twisted remnants of his soul. Sam gripped the slippery, malicious coils of smoke that was his essence and somehow held him, contained and squeezed him, bent him to Sam's will, forced him to submit. Dean bared his teeth, enraged.

Sam knelt next to him, running the tip of the knife from his temple down to his jaw. "I think Hell is in need of new management. And every king needs a knight."

"Yo son of a bitch," Dean seethed.

Sam laughed, a perverted sound. "No," he rose to his full height, towering over Dean, "You're my bitch now."


	16. Chapter 16

References the movie A Quiet Place

* * *

They don't travel north anymore. Or east. Georgia to Nevada, those are their limits. At least fallen leaves and fresh snow are two hazards they can avoid. Dean supposes they should count themselves lucky. He and Sam have an advantage. They grew up together. Being able to practically read each other's thoughts and anticipate one another's movements comes in handy, more than they ever could have imagined before...before. And having a background in hunting doesn't hurt either, though it's not nearly as useful as he would have hoped since the things are invulnerable. But the basics are there and they already know how to evade something that's stalking them. It's one of the main reasons they've survived as long as they have.

The mint green electric car glides over the road. Sam's asleep with his head cushioned between the glass window and the back of the seat. At least he's enjoying the change of vehicle, the hippy, though who cares about the environment when the whole world's been eaten by those...things? For his part, Dean misses his baby. Left in a storage locker in Kansas, right by a silver maple tree with green leaves turning scarlet. Of course, if he had known her distinct purr was what was drawing the creatures to them, he would have left sooner. Maybe then those people would still be alive.

He shakes his head, tosses away those thoughts. They're useless distractions, eye catching billboards on a stretch of desert highway, advertising businesses that no longer exist. He turns down a side street, past houses long since abandoned. Dark windows in dark homes. Further along, he comes to the main street, follows it until he finds a dark convenience store. They're going to need to find another ride and soon. Or at least find somewhere that has the power to charge this one. But not now. Dean doesn't want to wake Sam. Not yet.

Rolling down the window is quieter than opening the door. It requires quite a bit of contortion and unvoiced grunts but he manages to get out of the car. He places his feet carefully, watching for twigs, gravel, or forgotten styrofoam cups. Anything that will make noise. He makes it to the door without incident and stands on the threshold, scanning the interior frame. No bells, and no sensor for a chime that he can see. He holds his breath and only releases it when the door opens with minimal sound.

It doesn't take long to pick out what he needs. Their choices are limited. Anything wrapped in plastic is immediately off the table. The items in the coolers are only viable if he wants to challenge himself with how quietly he can vomit expired milk and burritos. Canned soda is bypassed in favor of bottled juices. A box of granola bars, one of those tubes packed with flat chips, a jar of pickles. He's nearly to the door when, as an afterthought, he turns around and snags one of the magazines off the rack by the register. But the motion is too quick and the legs are unstable and the whole thing tips and Dean's heart leaps forward with his hands, but he's loaded down with all his supplies and the metal is going to collide with the counter and if any of those monsters are within a five mile radius, which they must be, given the state of the city, they're going to hear and then they're going to come and Dean's got no way to kill them, no way to stop them from tearing into Sam like they tore into Bobby-He pivots on his heel, jams his elbow between the rack and the counter.

Sam stirs when something is slapped into his lap. He blinks bleary eyes and peers at the gleaming teeth of a celebrity now long gone. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches Dean's hands moving, signing. Got you something, Sammy.


	17. Chapter 17

"I still can't believe you talked me into this," Dean commented, eyes tracing the loops and whirls in the wooden ceiling.

Lisa snuggled further into his bare chest, running her fingers lightly over his right shoulder. "And you thought you'd be bored."

"You were right. A cabin in the middle of nowhere does have some benefits." Dean bent his head down and gently nipped her ear.

Lisa tilted her face, grinning against his throat. "No neighbors to complain about the noise."

"And with Ben at your sister's…" Dean trailed off, shifting in the bed until he was propped on his arm, staring down at where Lisa lay under him.

"You're certainly making good use of our time here," Lisa giggled, petting the short hair at the nape of his neck.

Dean brought his face close to hers while his hand roamed her body under the blankets. "You only get a birthday once a year," he murmured before covering her mouth with his.

With a gasp, Lisa bolted upright, narrowly missing cracking Dean's nose with her forehead. "Did you hear that?"

"Hear what?" Dean asked absently, chasing after her lips.

She pulled away, sitting up and scooting back until she was pressed against the headboard. "Listen," she hissed, fisting the comfoter and yanking it up to cover herself.

Huffing with irritated disappointment, Dean made a show of cocking his head and straining his ears. "I don't hear anything," he said after a minute. "Lis, there's nothing out there."

Lisa frowned at him. "I know I heard something."

"We're on private property, it's not exactly a national park. It was probably just a bird or something," Dean placated, reaching for her.

She wriggled out of his grasp. "It wasn't a bird."

Dean bowed his head, frustrated with the interruption. "Then maybe it was a raccoon. Look, this is the wrong part of the country for wolves or mountain lions or even bears. And we'd be too close to the city even if it was."

"I know that," Lisa snapped. "But those aren't the only dangerous creatures to live in the woods, are they?"

Dean was about to respond with another reassurance, as well as a suggestion that there were more interesting things they could be doing with their mouths than talking, when he heard it too. The unmistakable noise of something large coming close, the snap of branches, rustling of leaves. As it came nearer, they were able to hear its heavy pants as it breathed. Dean slipped off the bed and picked up his discarded jeans, dressing in them as quickly as possible.

A thump startled them both. It had come from the end of the wall, only a few feet away from the bed. Lisa's eyes were wide, wet pools framed by her mussed hair. Quietly, Dean retrieved his pistol from the nightstand drawer. He double checked the ammo. Silver bullets. In addition to killing any natural animal, it would be enough to drop a shapeshifter, skinwalker, or werewolf. Another thump, this time accompanied by snuffling and snarling. Motioning Lisa to stay on the bed, Dean left the bedroom, reentering with the iron poker from the fireplace in the living room. Despite the salt lines he had laid, and the gun he was holding, he handed her the makeshift weapon. She took it, face pale.

Whatever was outside increased its attempts to get inside. They could hear claws scraping against the wooden planks. Lisa trembled. Frustrated growling. The clap of large jaws. Claws scraping. Snarling. Thumping. Growls and snapping teeth. The splintering of wood. The two lovers jolted at that, Lisa's hand flying to her mouth to muffle her cry. Dean's eyes flicked to her and the end of the wall, the outer side of which had been damaged. Mouth set in a grim line, he turned and stalked out of the room.

Lisa wanted to call after him but didn't dare. The clawing and growling continued on, seeming louder now that she was alone. Her pulse was echoing in her ears and she clutched the iron rod tighter. A gunshot cracked. Lisa jumped. The thing yelped. Then it roared. Lisa tossed off the blankets and sprang from the bed, heading to the window in nothing but her underwear. She craned her neck but the window was on the wrong wall and she couldn't see anything. All she could do was listen to the scuffle taking place mere feet from her. When Dean yelled in pain, she abandoned common sense, ignored his order, and sprinted out the front door. Gravel and bits of sticks poked at her bare feet as she raced around the rustic cabin, calling his name.

"Lisa, stay back!"

As she rounded the final corner separating her from Dean, the creature let loose an ear splitting wail.

The moon glimmered through a veil of clouds, illuminating the scene with a spectral glow. In front of what Lisa could only identify as a mound of fur and claws, Dean stood with his back to her. In his right hand, he clutched his pocket knife, coated in a thick, dark liquid. Down his shoulder, streaks of blood trailed, weeping from three jagged gashes. Lisa slowed her approach and lowered the fire poker. Dean turned his head only far enough for her to catch a glimpse of shadowed eyes and a clenched jaw.

"Go back inside and wait for me."

She was too stunned to react, bracing herself against the cabin for support as she took in the sight.

"Now!" Dean barked, jerking her from her trance and prompting her feet to carry her back into the shelter of the building.

She ended up cross legged on the bed, fire poker across her lap. Dean eventually came in, though she had no concept of how much time had elapsed. She glanced up, trying to catch his eye. He walked past her without acknowledging her, going straight into the bathroom and shutting the door firmly behind him. The faucet turned on with a splash. Lisa counted through two minutes. When the water wasn't shut off and Dean still didn't emerge, she went in after him. The door wasn't locked.

He was standing at the sink, towel pressed to his bleeding shoulder and teeth clenched against the pain. Lisa stepped up behind him and placed her hands over his on the injury. He smelled of smoke and burnt fur. Lisa looked to the mirror, hoping to meet his eyes. He kept his head bent, focused on his wound.

"How bad is it?" Lisa questioned quietly.

Dean lifted his unharmed shoulder in a shrug. "Not bad. Won't even need stitches."

Lisa hummed in the back of her throat and reached past him to swing the mirror open, revealing the cabinet behind it. After pulling down a roll of gauze, she selected a bottle of pills and set it on the counter. Painkillers, and he was going to take some if she had to shove them down his throat herself. He raised an eyebrow but didn't argue, having learned from past experience not to argue when Lisa's features were set in that particular look of determination. Once the bleeding stopped, Dean took the towel off, tossing it into the corner to deal with later, and Lisa gently wrapped the wound in gauze. Dean was stiff as she worked, muscles tight beneath her hands.

"I'm sorry," he muttered.

Lisa's fingers paused before resuming their task. "Why are you apologizing?"

Dean exhaled. "This shouldn't have happened. Especially not on your birthday."

"Come on. It's not like you knew this would happen," Lisa argued.

"Something always happens," Dean stated with weary authority. "And I'm sorry. This isn't what I wanted for you."

"Hey." Lisa placed her palm against the side of his face, turning his head toward her. "This is not your fault. And I'm the one who convinced you to come with me, remember?"

He took her wrist and tugged her hand from his face, shaking his head lightly. He opened his mouth to protest but she placed the finger of her other hand against his lips.

"Shhh," she soothed, reclaiming her wrist from his grip and squeezing the back of his neck. "Shhh."

He closed his eyes and relaxed under her touch, the tense line of his spine easing.


	18. Chapter 18

"Quit worrying, that's just an urban legend!" Dean said, using the rearview to keep an eye on the soccer mom in the backseat.

She kept twisting her head to either side, staring fearfully out of the windows. "But you just told me that ghosts are real! So it makes sense, doesn't it? The Vanishing Hitchhiker must be a ghost!"

"Holly, listen to me. That's just a story. There's no such thing as the Vanishing Hitchhiker," Dean assured her.

Sam turned his head to talk to her over the seat. "Dean's right."

"How can you be sure?" Holly wrung her hands, not quite able to abandon her hyper vigilant scan of the highway passing by.

"Me and him, this is kind of what we do," Dean replied. "We've already checked into that story. But that's all it is. A story."

Holly swallowed and met his eyes in the mirror.

"Now will you please stop acting so jumpy? You're putting me on edge," Dean snapped.

Sam shot his brother an annoyed look but Holly immediately stopped her fretful glances out the windows.


	19. Chapter 19

Smearing blurry eyes with uncoordinated hands, Dean stumbled into the kitchen, driven only by an innate search for caffeine. After a satisfying yawn that nearly doubled the length of his face, he went to grab a mug when something at the table caught his attention. He blinked, tilted his head, and pinched himself to make sure he wasn't still dreaming.

"Sam..." he called, knowing his brother was of that particular breed of human who thought seven o'clock was a reasonable time to get up in the morning.

If Sam was in one of the storage rooms, it would take him about twenty seconds to arrive. If he was in the library, Dean estimated it closer to eight. Sure enough, the heavy thumping footsteps of his big, hairy, little brother could be heard six seconds later. Library it was.

"Dean? Dean, what is it?" Sam burst into the room, barefoot, half-read dusty tome held aloft.

Well, knowledge is power and with that many pages, the book certainly had the bulk to be used as a club if needed.

Dean pointed at the table. "You can see that too, right?"

Using his eyes, Sam followed Dean's finger and frowned. "Yes. But I'm not sure what exactly I'm looking at." His eyebrows met in the middle of his forehead, finding comfort in one another's close proximity.

"Good morning, guys!" Jack greeted them with more enthusiasm than any sane person should possess.

"What, ah," Dean cleared his throat, pumping the accelerator on his stalling voice. "What's with all the-" Since he was such an awesome brother, he tried to think of a tactful way to phrase his question for Sam's sake. "Orange? And the makeup and crap?" Okay, so Dean didn't do tactful before noon. Sue him.

Jack, wearing a tracksuit that was such an offensive shade of genetically modified carrot no self respecting jogger would be caught dead in it, glanced all the way down to his life vest colored galoshes and all the way up to the ridiculous green stump of styrofoam on his head before grinning at Dean from beneath a three inch layer of tanning spray. "Try and guess what I am."

"Crazy," Dean muttered.

Sam elbowed him with a familiarly pointed elbow that no amount of flannel could dull before turning to Jack with an expression of polite interest that would make the Queen of England proud. "I don't know, Jack. What are you?"

"Guess," Jack insisted.

"A mutant caution cone?" Dean hazarded, grimacing at the globs of black paint that had swallowed the area around each of Jack's eyes, and then gone on to his eat his mouth for dessert.

"No. I'm a jack o'lantern!" he declared.

Sam and Dean shared an incredulous look.

Jack mistook their dubiousness for incomprehension. "Get it? Because my name is Jack. So I'm a _Jack_ o'lantern," he explained charitably. When the Winchesters still remained speechless, he elaborated. "A jack o'lantern is a pumpkin carved into-"

"Yeah, we know what a jack o'lantern is." Sam held up a hand to stop the dictionary definition in the making.

"Oh, sorry. You looked confused," Jack said.

Dean nodded slowly. "We are confused. Dude, it's the middle of July. What are you doing dressing up for Halloween?"

"Netflix suggested a movie I might like so I watched it and wanted to learn more about the holiday and well, I guess I just got a little caught up in the excitement." He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly.

"You think?" Dean crossed his arms.

Jack visibly deflated in the face of Dean's hostility.

Sam stepped forward. "Look, Jack. It's a great costume," he ignored Dean's snort, "But how about we just put it away and wait until it's actually Halloween, okay?"

"Isn't he a little old for trick or treating?" Dean asked.

Sam arched a brow over his shoulder at him. "He'll be five months in October."

Dean threw his hands up in the air. Forget it. No coffee was worth dealing with holiday-crazed Nephilim. Oh well, he liked beer better anyway.


	20. Chapter 20

"I thought you said you weren't going to come." Lisa's voice at his elbow was a welcome reprieve from the thirty-third repetition of Michael Jackson's Thriller blasting from the sound system.

Eyes still on the crowd of neighbors jostling each other for elbow room on the patio, Dean tipped his beer into his mouth, let the bottle rest on his bottom lip when he was done, unhurried in his response. "I wasn't."

"Mhm." He could almost feel the vibration of her hum, so close to his arm. "And just what is your costume?"

The corner of his lip twisted in a cocky display of attitude. "I don't do costumes."

"Costume required," Lisa reminded.

Dean exhaled quietly, lowering his nearly empty drink and tapping it gently against his thigh. "Then I'm your typical, middle aged, tax-payer in America. Terrifying I know." Finally, he brought his eyes down to rest on Lisa. "But what about you?"

Lisa gestured to her sweater and slacks."We went as the same monster."

Leaning down, Dean whispered, "You wanna get out of here?"

"I've got the babysitter paid up through midnight."


	21. Chapter 21

"Quit changing my ringtones to different Halloween tones," Sam asked for what just had to be the thousandth time.

Dean smirked at him from across the table, juice dribbling down his arm as he lifted his heart attack-inducing burger. "What's the matter, Sammy? Why don't you like it?"

Sam inhaled through his nose with measured calm, held it for a moment longer than normal, and then exhaled slowly before speaking. "Because it's the middle of February. And because I already had the settings on my phone how I wanted them. And because it's childish and immature!" He snapped his mouth shut after the last reason, realizing too late that his voice had been rising in volume with each complaint. A quick glance around the diner revealed that the patrons seated closest to them were frowning at the Winchesters with disapproval. Sam sent them what he hoped was an apologetic hand wave, accompanied by a smile he'd been told could charm the hair off a black dog, though he had yet to test the theory. When he turned his attention back to his brother, the smile packed a bag and headed south for warmer weather.

"I don't know, man. I mean, they fit, don't they?" Dean grinned, showcasing masticated ground beef, tomatoes and lettuce, with an onion waving cheerfully at Sam from the corner of his mouth.

Disgusted, Sam looked away, just in time to catch a six year old across the dining area jamming a french fry up his nostril. Apparently the only safe object to view was his cell phone, positioned in the center of the table, a witness in the stand.

"Dude, half the contacts in your phone are monsters. I was just trying to reflect that," Dean explained without remorse.

Sam glared at him and retracted his phone, cradling it in his hands as he set about repairing the damage Dean had done.


	22. Chapter 22

"Whoa, whoa, whoa! Calm down there, buddy! You're acting like you're the only one who's had a rough go of it lately." The Trickster held up his hands non-threateningly.

"Seeing as how I was the one stuck in the time loop, I'd say I have the right-" Sam started, pushing the tip of the stake further into the man's neck.

"Wrong." The Trickster confidently batted away the stake. "You weren't the only one stuck in the time loop."

"What?" Sam snapped.

The Trickster cocked his head to the side. "I mean, yeah, technically you were the only one stuck in _this_ time loop. But Dean had his own loop to deal with. Isn't that right, Dean?" He turned expectantly to Dean.

Sam turned as well, but Dean looked away and wouldn't meet Sam's eyes. Sam frowned and glared at the Trickster. "You're lying. You just said this was about teaching me a lesson."

"Aaaand Dean needed to go to school too," the Trickster singsonged. "His lesson was a little different though." He rolled his head to the side, heedless of the stake Sam was leveling at him again. "Tell me, Dean. Did you pay attention? Take notes? Are you ready to write an essay on how it feels to be the brother left behind?"

Dean swallowed hard but didn't respond.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Sam demanded, rounding on Dean.

"Oh, don't be too hard on him. He only got here this morning," the Trickster dismissed. "But hey, do you want to know how long he lasted before he cracked?"

Dean curled his hands into fists. "Why don't you just shut up?"

"Let me think." The Trickster steepled his fingers and tapped them against his chin in faux concentration. "The Mystery Spot owner, the car, the falling piano…" he trailed off, seemingly counting the incidents in his mind. "If I'm right, and of course I am, it was less than eight. Only took eight times for you to bite it before Dean went crazy."

"Sam, don't listen to him," Dean grunted.

Sam ignored him. "What do you mean crazy?"

"Well, for starters, he figured it out much quicker than you did. See, the thing about Dean is, he's a lot smarter than you give him credit for. Which, considering that you don't give him any at all, isn't saying much." The Trickster shrugged.

Trying to not let the man's words get to him, Sam stared resolutely ahead. In the corner of his eye, he caught Dean's shoulders curling into a hunch that always twisted something in Sam's belly.

The Trickster hadn't stopped talking. "But still. He knew something, or rather, someone, was doing this to the two of you. Now, he didn't even think to torch the Mystery Spot or break it down. That was your move and yours alone, Sam. No, what Dean did..." The Trickster paused dramatically, a smirk taking over the corners of his mouth. "What Dean did was so much worse."

"Sam," Dean barked, gesturing to the stake now limp in Sam's grip.

"See, Dean decided the only way to stop you from dying was to kill whoever was doing the killing," the Trickster finished, basking in the distress becoming evident on Sam's face.

Eyebrows drawing together, Sam looked to Dean. "Is he telling the truth?"

"What? No! Of course not," Dean answered too quickly, too loudly. "He-he's messing with you. That's all that is. Just a bunch of crap to distract you from putting that stake in his neck where it belongs."

"Hmm." The Trickster tilted his head and squinted at Dean. "He looks like he's lying. Don't you think he looks like he's lying, Sam?"

"I'm not," Dean snapped. "There was no second time loop. Or if, and that's a big if, even if there was, I don't remember any of it."

"Oh. So you don't remember getting your gun and blasting through every single person in town?" The Trickster raised an eyebrow. "Makes sense. I mean, after a while, all the murder just kind of blends together. I don't blame you for forgetting."

"He what?" Sam choked.

"Yep. Every morning, he got up, grabbed that beautiful ivory grip Colt 1911 and took out as many people as he could. Odds were one of them was bound to be the culprit, right?" The Trickster winked.

Sam was horrified. Dean was silent.

"Now, now. Don't go getting the wrong idea. He started off one at a time. But as the Tuesdays wore on and you kept dying, well. They say desperate times call for desperate measures. To tell you the truth, he was kind of hard to keep up with near the end. Do you have any idea how exhausting it is to reset an entire town? And then to have to bring half of them back from the dead on top of that?" The Trickster blew out a breath. "I've gotta tell ya, I was more than a little relieved when he finally got through everyone. And he made sure of it too. I don't know how he did it. Must have had some kind of list up in that twisted, desperate brain of his. He didn't miss a single person. Doris, Mr. Pickett, Randy, the Honorable Judge Myers, even Mr. Hasselback's sweet daughter."

As bile climbed his throat, Sam stared at Dean, waiting, begging his brother to deny the horrible accusation. Dean's face was a mask, unreadable, terrible for its blankness.

"Who knows? His plan might not have been such a bad one," The Trickster offered with fake cheerfulness. "If only bullets could have actually hurt me, that is."

"Why'd you do it? Why bring Dean here, to my loop? Why now?" Sam pressed, returning his attention to the Trickster.

The Trickster pursed his lips in casual thought. Then he addressed Dean. "Do you want to tell him? Or should I?"

"Tell me what?" Sam glanced back and forth between them furiously.

Finally, Dean took a step forward. "You say one more word and I swear, I will end you," he growled.

The Trickster grinned at him, malicious, before looking back to Sam. "Dean didn't want to play by the rules anymore."

"Shut up!" Dean shouted.

The Trickster went on. "When he'd run out of unsuspecting townspeople to kill, well, he had to find something a little closer to home." He rolled his eyes. "Don't look so nervous, Sam. We both know he'd never hurt you."

Sam tightened his grip on the wooden stake.

"That's kind of what got us all into this mess in the first place," the Trickster muttered before staring Sam dead in the eye. "No, what our boy did, he took that pistol." The Trickster folded his hand into the shape of a gun. "And sat on that motel bed." The 'gun' was now placed, almost tenderly, under the Trickster's chin. "And he pulled the trigger." He mimed the action, whispering, "Boom."

The world closed in on Sam, oxygen sucked from the air, light vanished, and he struggled to take a breath.

"You can see why I had to move him. If only so that the poor maid didn't have to scrape brain off the-"

The loud smack of a powerful punch cleared Sam's tunneling vision and he blinked, only to find the Trickster on the ground, a hand pressed to his aching jaw. Dean yanked the weapon from Sam's lax grip and mounted the man, raising it above his head to slam it down into the Trickster's unprotected neck.

Music drifted on the air and Sam sat up in bed.


	23. Chapter 23

A quick shout out to guest user Kathy (since I can't PM you) and **shadowhuntingdauntlessdemigod** (because you're awesome!) who have left reviews on multiple chapters. You boosted my confidence and made this worth all my time and effort :D

* * *

"Another dead end, Jody. What am I supposed to do now?"

Jody barely resisted the urge to hold the phone away from her ear to protect it from the thunderous tone of voice Dean was employing. "Alright, hey. Calm down, okay?"

To her surprise, there was a pause on the other end, a measured inhale and a controlled exhale. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to take it out on you. It's just…" Dean trailed off and Jody pictured him rubbing a hand down his face wearily. "It's been more than two months."

"I know. And I know it doesn't feel like you're getting anywhere, but trust me, Dean. We'll get him back," Jody said.

"Why's it taking so long to catch a break?" Dean demanded. "If Crowley really does have Sam, why hasn't he come to gloat? And why are all these demons playing dumb?"

Jody shrugged. "Maybe they're loyal to their boss."

"No. No way. I know a thing or two about making demons talk. This goes way beyond loyalty to a guy they all hate anyway. It's like they really don't know anything about it," Dean said.

"Or maybe we just haven't found the right one yet," Jody said. "Look, there's no way Crowley took Sam all by himself. We'll just have to work our way up to his inner circle. And then through it, if we have to. Right up to the big boss himself."

"I hope Crowley's enjoying his last days alive. Because as soon as I find him-"

Jody interrupted Dean's thoughts of vengeance. "Any news from Cas?"

"No. He says he can't find Sam but he can still sense him, whatever that means. So I guess that's good," Dean said.

Jody nodded. "That is good. It means Sam's alive. As long as he's alive, we've got hope."

Dean snorted.

"I heard that," Jody teased.

"Sorry," Dean murmured.

"Alright. Get some sleep, Dean. I mean it. You'll be no good to anyone if you drop from exhaustion. We'll pick up the trail tomorrow," Jody ordered. Movement at the end of the hall caught her eye and she hurried to end her call. "Gotta go. I'm really not supposed to be using my cell in here. I'll call you first thing tomorrow."

Dean grunted.

"I'm not going to give up, Dean. You shouldn't either," Jody said before hanging up and quickly pocketing her cell. "How's he doing, doc?"

Dr. Sharpspring glanced at the patient before securing his eyes to the floor. "He's stable."

Jody arched an eyebrow. "But?"

"But," the doctor shifted his weight, "we'll have to wake him up again soon."

Jody rolled her eyes. "Again?"

"You told me to keep him sedated but alive. This is the only way to do it," Sharpspring hissed. "He has to regain consciousness every two weeks or he's at risk for serious and permanent side effects."

Jody crossed her arms. "Fine."

As if suddenly realizing his outburst was louder than intended, Sharpspring clamped his mouth shut and ducked his head.

"Thanks, doc," Jody dismissed.

Sharpspring made to move past her but Jody stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. "Oh. And say hi to your daughter for me."

Sharpspring's mouth dipped in miserable shame before he slunk away down the corridor. Jody watched him go, face pinched with faux sympathy.

"It's amazing what parents will do for their kids. Or even, the kid brother they've raised. Isn't that right, Sam?" She pivoted on her heel, smirking down at the comatose Winchester on the hospital bed.

"Of course, Tim's daughter really should be in prison, the little criminal. You, on the other hand, this isn't personal." She tilted her head, stepping closer to the head of the bed. "Well, actually it is. But it's not about you, Sam. This is about Crowley." Lifting a hand as if to ward off any protest he might make, she continued. "I know, I know. I should have just let it go. But see, here's the thing." She crouched down until her eyes were level with his closed ones. "When someone plants a hex bag in my purse and tries to make me choke on my own blood, I can't just forget about it. So." She snapped back up to her full height.

"I planned my revenge. It took me a while, don't get me wrong. It's not easy to come up with a way to take down the King of Hell. But then I realized something. There was no way I could do it myself. I needed help." She tapped her chin in faux thought. "I needed someone with the knowledge and the guts to kill demons. And guess what? You and your brother fit the bill. Now, you two would never help me willingly. You don't understand though. This is something I have to do."

Dark memories of terror and helplessness welled up in her mind and Jody pushed them down forcefully. "There was nothing I could say to convince you boys so I had to get creative. And since you've been asleep this whole time, let me fill you in on a little secret, Sam." She laid a hand over his lifeless one. "Your brother loves you. More than anything. More than himself. More than his morals." In a gesture of mock comfort, she patted the back of his hand. "Without his seven foot Jiminy Cricket, Pinocchio has been racking up quite the body count." She dropped his hand and turned to the window, spreading her arms wide. "It's working out even better than I thought. All I have to do is drop a name and Dean is there." Her arms fell to her sides.

"He's dropping bodies almost faster than I can keep up with. If these weren't demons we were talking about, I might even be disturbed by it all." She gazed down on the parking lot, on the people milling about, ignorant and vulnerable. "He's ruthless," she mused. "Relentless. Quick and dirty," she added with an ironic twist of her lips.

Finally, she returned to the bed. "I was going to tell him. Honestly, I was. This was supposed to be a temporary thing. Dean would take out a few of Crowley's right hand men and then I would tell him how you miraculously showed up here. But now…" she rubbed the back of her neck almost sheepishly. "Dean was just so fast and so efficient and I got an idea. What if I could get him all the way to Crowley? Cut off the head of the monster, so to speak. Wouldn't that be something, huh?" Jody's eyes gleamed with a crazed ambition. "Hell would be leaderless, the stragglers easy pickings. See, there's a whole lot of good that can come out of this mess. Just imagine it. A world without demons." She lifted herself on tiptoes briefly, checking behind the bed for the discreetly hidden symbols in red paint. "Thanks for the all the info on angel warding, by the way. I just had to cover all the bases. You understand, don't you, Sam?"

Sam didn't answer.

"Although, I have to say, I am surprised at you. I call you out of the blue, ask to meet up with you, without Dean, and you didn't think that was a little strange? Not that I'm complaining." Jody rocked back on her heels. "Anyway. I'm sure it won't be long now. Dean's getting desperate. And we both know how dangerous he gets when he's desperate. So you just hang tight, okay, Sam? This will all be over soon." She patted his head with condescending authority. "Now if you'll excuse me, I need to find another demon for your brother to kill."


	24. Chapter 24

Shout out to **waitingforAslan** and **TolkienScholar** for writing the lengthy reviews every fanfic author drools over! :D

* * *

"Aw, Dean. Did you make a friend?"

Dean's head snapped up, eyes narrowed. "This isn't funny, Sam."

In contrast to Dean's assertion, Sam chuckled. He couldn't help it. The oversized puppy tripped over its own paws in its eagerness to keep up with Dean's retreating strides. "I think he likes you."

"Well, I don't like him. Shoo! Go on, get out of here!" Dean grabbed the nearest object off the floor and waved it at the large pup.

Instead of being intimidated, the puppy lowered its front half, long dark tail waving through the air as it yapped with excitement. Dean's face creased with annoyance before an idea occurred to him.

"You want to play, huh? You want this?" He edged around the motel room until he reached the door. After opening it, he ensured he had the dog's attention before flinging the item clear across the parking lot. "Go get it!"

The puppy enthusiastically bolted out the door. Its tail had barely cleared the frame before Dean slammed the door shut, locking it for good measure. The grin slid off Sam's face.

"Dean! That was my shoe," he whined.

"Yeah. And now it's a chew toy," Dean retorted, unapologetic. When Sam's pout only deepened, Dean added, "Come on, Sam. It was a necessary sacrifice. We needed something to distract the monster."

"He's just a puppy," Sam argued.

Dean gestured out toward the parking lot. "That's not Lassie out there, Sam. That's a Black Dog."

"A baby Black Dog," Sam reminded him.

"Which is the only reason I haven't put a bullet in it yet," Dean muttered.

Sam shook his head, rolling his eyes.

"You know that thing's going to grow up into a savage killing machine. You do realize that, don't you?" Dean said.

There was a thump and both brothers glanced down to find the puppy in the middle of the floor, panting happily over a slobber-soaked sneaker. Dean stared at it for a moment before meeting Sam's eyes.

"It can teleport."

"I see that," Sam agreed.

"The freaking Black Dog can teleport, Sam," Dean repeated.

Sam coughed, though it sounded suspiciously like he was laughing. "Sounds like you might have a hard time getting rid of your new pal then."

While Dean glared at Sam, the puppy nudged the wet shoe into Dean's foot and barked to garner his attention.

"Well, at least we know what his favorite toy is, don't we?" Dean said with a smug smirk as he bent to retrieve the ruined footwear.

Suddenly, the situation didn't seem as funny to Sam as it had before.


	25. Chapter 25

Dean remembers the t-shirt. He'll always remember the t-shirt. Banana yellow and Sam's favorite. Bought it in a size too big, like all the others to make the money stretch, and worn until it was a size too small, though Dean never looked at it the same.

His breath comes out like a dragon's, white and puffy, warm in the cold. But it's not the chill of a ghost, just Wisconsin in October. He doesn't know which he'd rather. Sure, waiting in the middle of the woods in the dead of night for a hairy beast with lots of claws and teeth is probably more dangerous than some spirit that's hanging around. But spirits used to be people, as real as him or Sam or Mr. Gregson the landlord and Mrs. Harper, principal of Dean's high school. So killing something that's not supposed to exist in nature and getting rid of something that used to be human, there's a difference and it's the kind of mismatched that sets his teeth on edge, plays merry-go-round with his brain.

A bird twitters and takes off, snap of twig. Settles in a different tree, ruffle of feathers and leaves. It's only a bird, he knows it's a bird. He knows. But that doesn't stop him from spinning around like he's ten and on his first hike with his dad, spooked by the slightest whisper of wind. He scans his surroundings and he can even see the thing, perched on a branch, running its beak through its feathers. It's just, he saw the crime scene photos. His dad didn't show them to him. But he never said Dean couldn't look at them. And it wasn't like he hid them very well. The folder was sitting on top of the fridge and it only took climbing on the chair to get it down.

All kids. All of them. All four victims. Kids. Dead kids. Kids all torn apart. All carved up and eaten from the outside in, stringy bits and gnawed bones still packaged inside torn overalls and bloodied sweaters. Little boys and little girls and the latest one from Sammy's grade. Danny Carrigan. Curly hair and a dimpled smile so like Sam's. Danny's shoe was untied. Dean had seen that. In the corner of the fourth photo, taken at an angle so the feet were on the far right side of the page toward the middle, the best perspective to capture all the damage to the narrow torso. Danny's left sneaker had a sloppy knot in it. The right had white laces stretched out like supplicating hands.

Moon's nearly full tonight but it isn't a werewolf they're after. Dean rolls his shoulders, cranes his head from side to side by extending his neck this way and that, stretches the tension from his muscles and the fear from his mind. Shotgun in his palms, off balanced because he's not holding it right. Too limp and pointed at the nest of matted grass and fallen leaves under his boots.

He hopes they'll go back to Bobby's after this. He's already sick of this town and its nice people. He's sick of his school, the kids in his grade and the kids in the other grades, the teachers and the lunch ladies and Mrs. Harper's office with the fishtank. He's sick of their house and it hasn't even been two months. He'd rather have Bobby's smelly old dump with piles of pictureless books in the bedroom he and Sam share than the big empty new place that one of his dad's war buddies set them up with because his sister married Mr. Gregson's cousin. He's sick of hot dogs and mac'n'cheese because his dad can't cook any better than he can. He's sick of the grocery store down the street where the same three employees work, the old man, the young man, and the old woman who tries to pinch his cheeks as if he's not a fourteen year old that can field strip a Glock in under a minute and there's something moving through the trees, coming this way and it's much bigger than a bird, can't be a bird, isn't a bird.

It's something that's not even trying to be quiet and why would a nine foot, hairy, toothy monster need to be quiet when it's at the top of the food chain? It's approaching from the left, from the west. Or south, he can't remember which is which and his dad would be disappointed but his dad's not here because he went north to try and find the thing and Dean's supposed to stay here, the last defense between the monster and the town, the town with the house they're renting from Mr. Gregson where Sam's asleep in his own bed in his own room and he's not going to end up like Danny Carrigan. Danny Carrigan had two older brothers but they don't know the stuff Dean Winchester does and Dean Winchester isn't going to let Sam become a crime scene photo, feet midway on the page, right shoe lace untied.

The barrel swings left, past weeds and tree branches, nearly points to the sky in the best approximation of where Dean guesses the monster's hideous head will block out the moonlight with hungry snarls and snapping jaws. The wind blows cool on his hands, freezes the sweat collecting in the hollows of his palms. Sweat on metal and the heaviness as he adjusts his grip. Takes a breath, holds, releases the air and sets the butt of the gun, nestles it into the meager cushion of shoulder muscle. Cheek against the stock and eyes down the sight and wait, wait, wait. His finger creeps to the trigger.

His expectations are set on a giant so it takes a minute for him to process the little body that comes crashing out of the trees in front of him. The movement draws his eye, habit brushes his finger against the trigger with light pressure and his heart stops and his mouth dries and he drops the gun, barrel pointed into matted grass again.

"Sammy," he breathes, light-headed and reeling.

Sam's face, a round pale thing in the moonlight, bobs above his banana yellow t-shirt. Kid's not even wearing a jacket, rail-thin arms protruding from the short sleeves. Dean's already reaching out, exchanging shotgun barrel for delicate wrist. For once, Sam doesn't protest.

"What are you doing here?" Dean harsh-whispers, eyes darting around the area, bouncing like a laser pointer from tree limb to tree limb to Sam's frightened expression.

"Dean," Sam starts. Doesn't finish.

"You're supposed to be in bed. Why aren't you in bed?" Dean's feet set a marching pace, gun dangling in one hand, Sam dragging in the other.

"Dad said-"

Dry leaves crack and break under Dean's boots. "Dad said you're not supposed to be out here."

"You're wrong," says Sam.

It's classic, predictable, and he knows he shouldn't be so easy to manipulate, but Dean stops anyway. "What are you talking about?"

Sam's eyes are unnaturally large, drawing Dean into their depths. "Dad came and got me. Told me he had a job for me to do."

The ground lurches under Dean's feet. "What kind of job?"

Sam shifts, wrist rotating in Dean's fingers as he rubs one foot against the ankle of his other. Both shoelaces are tied. "He wouldn't tell me anything else. Just took me to this one spot in the woods and told me to stay put. Then he left." His words come faster, now. "But Dean, I couldn't. I didn't want to stay there. It felt like something was watching me and I kept hearing these noises and I was-" The lump of Sam's adam's apple jumps up and down. "I was scared."

"That doesn't make any sense. Why would Dad want you out here?" The night is dangerously close to splintering into pieces and Dean grips the edges, pushes, keeps the center together by pressure alone.

"I don't know," Sam says, as if that's his greatest failure in life. "I don't know. I was sleeping and then Dad woke me up. But I was supposed to be asleep and then I'd wake up in the morning and you two would be back from your" -his voice dips likes like it's a dark forbidden secret- "hunt."

The hunt. The hunt for the thing that kills children. Thing that kills kids in Sam's grade. The monster that stalks these woods and steals Danny Carrigan away from his family. This is its territory, where it has power and can snatch a kid no problem, yum yum, lung and liver stew, get it while it's hot. Sam whines when Dean's hand coils painfully tight around his wrist.

There were no signs. But obviously they missed something. It's possible, right? Some kind of monster teamup? Like Batman and Robin, only evil and blood-thirsty kid-eaters instead of heroes. There's a shapeshifter here. A second monster. One that can make itself look like a trusted parent. The shifter lures the kids outside, gets them away from the protection of bright lights and warm houses. Leads them right to the big guy, the one with the teeth and the claws. They're hunting two monsters, not one. How else could Dad have pulled Sam from the safety of their home and left him alone in the dark with evil on the prowl?

It's not a comforting thought and Dean's heart trips and stumbles. His stomach is twirling and bumping around inside of him, like clothes in the dryer at a laundromat. This isn't the simple hunt Dad promised it would be. It's scarier now, double the monsters. And Sam's here too, which isn't supposed to happen. Dean begged his dad. Groveled and pleaded and said whatever, promised anything, just to keep Sam out of this. Sam's not supposed to watch the moon sail across the backdrop of black as the hours spin on and creatures come out. He's not supposed to stand tiny beside ancient trees that creak and moan and hide all manner of inhuman foes with sharp appetites.

The shotgun thumps against his thigh as he tugs Sam away. He's got to get him back. Back to town, back to bed, back to safety. He knows what this thing will do to Sam, saw it in the pictures he wasn't supposed to see, knows it in the pulse jumping at the juncture of jaw and neck, the plummet of his gut. Fear jumps from nerve ending to nerve ending in his brain, speeds like electricity through his body. But there's an equal reaction of responsibility pushing back against it. Sam's wrist is tiny under his fingers as he leads the way, outwardly calm in a way that overcompensates for his inner chaos. He focuses on the concrete facts, keeps them heading in a straight line, weaving through trees, placing feet carefully in case of roots and brambles. Doesn't think about abstract possibilities that all end with Sam in an angled photograph.

"Sam?"

Dean draws to a halt so abruptly, Sam knocks his nose against his spine, opens his mouth to grumble but Dean slaps a hand over it, drags him off balance and behind a tree. Abrasive bark prickles his shoulder blades through his jacket, Sam pressed against his chest, mouth still covered.

"Sam." The call comes again, bitten off and harsh, commanding without volume.

The tone alone strikes Dean's entire body at a certain frequency. He's a radio receiver and he's tuned to it, has to respond, obey, snap to attention, how high sir? But that's not Dad out there, somewhere close by, searching for them. Dad's north, on the lookout for the big monster with big teeth and he doesn't know about the shifter. Sam begins to wiggle, bony knees and pointed elbows squirming against Dean's frame. The shotgun slips to the forest floor. Useless anyway. Silver's the only thing that puts down a shapeshifter. Dean wraps his other arm around Sam now, surrounds him like snake coils suffocating and unbreakable.

"Sam, where are you?"

He shuts his eyes, leans his head back against the tree trunk. The borrowed voice is growing fainter. Going the wrong way. Only once the crickets resume does he bring his mouth close to Sam's ear. "If you promise to stay quiet, I'll let you go."

The tickle of shaggy hair against his chin lets him know Sam's agreed. He releases him and Sam shoves away first thing, soon as he can. He crosses bare arms and cants his head judgmentally.

"What was that for? Dad was right here. He's looking for me," Sam whispers fiercely. "He probably wants me to do the special job he mentioned. If he gets mad, it's all your fault."

He doesn't want to scare Sam but the kid's eyes are already shiny and so round. "That's not Dad."

Sam doesn't know about shapeshifters yet and Dean really doesn't want him to. Paranoia already threatens knowing monsters are real. But knowing there are monsters that can look like anybody, that brings insanity.

"What do you mean?" Sam's voice is impossibly quieter.

"Come on." Hand in hand this time, Dean yanks Sam on.

How much farther? He can't tell, doesn't remember, has no way to know. But they have to keep moving, quietly if possible. But Sam's not very quiet. He's all unpracticed movements and innocent abandon and Dean whirls around with a reminder on his lips. The words die in his mouth, sour and stale as he catches sight of a shadow in the trees. Could just be his imagination, fueled by hypervigilance. But when he takes a few experimental steps forward, so does the shadow. It's silent and stalking them and Dean makes a snap decision in the heat of the moment. Abandoning stealth for speed, he wrenches Sam forward.

They're running now, Sam's gasping breaths punctuating their footfalls. Low hanging branches and no path and weeds trying to trip them and there's no way they're going to make it to town before that thing finds them. It's too far and they're too slow, Sam's legs not nearly long enough. Dean weaves a path between tree trunks, evasive and random. The thing following them keeps up fine though, bred for hunting and eager for blood.

"Dean, I can't," Sam pants and his hand slips in Dean's, falling behind, stamina drained.

Dean flicks his gaze around, desperate. There. A fallen log, tipped sideways, nearly laying across the ground save for the slanted end where there's a small gap he can just see the outline of. With a burst of panicked strength, he pulls Sam's stumbling form further, gains just enough distance from their pursuer. He swings his arm forward, lets go of Sam's hand and shoves him in the back, hard. Sam falls and Dean dives. They hit the bed of wrinkled leaves and Dean fists Sam's collar and drags him under the log, squeezing in beside him. The stump crowds them on one side, the log on the other and above them, bearing down on their backs and pushing them into the dirt. Their breaths are too loud and Dean's hand returns to Sam's mouth. Crushed in the narrow space as they are, he can feel his brother's body trembling. Or maybe it's him.

Boots appear in his line of sight and he jams his wrist against his mouth to muffle his quick, shallow breaths. He has no weapon, no backup, no way to protect himself or Sam. The boots come to a stop directly in front of them, close enough to count the twigs jammed up between the treads. He doesn't dare breathe, chest seizing and mind stuttering. The boots turn in a half circle.

"Boys? Sam. Dean. Come on out, boys."

Something moist drips down over the knuckle of Dean's thumb, the one he has pressed flat against Sam's cheek. Tears.

"This isn't a game, boys. You come out right now. It's not safe out here."

Dean bites down on his wrist, the points of his canines sharp even through his jacket. Sam's shivering and Dean's trembling and the shapeshifter is right here, right in front of them. All it has to do is look down. Look down and find two lost little boys, scared and defenseless, easy targets. His lungs beg for a reprieve, his wrist aches from the teeth clamped around it. Air flutters skittishly across the back of his hand as Sam exhales. Dean dips his shoulder down. The motion forces Sam's head down too, jammed beside him as it is. Sam's face is buried in leaves and dirt but Dean keeps his own face up. Watching the threat. Waiting for the moment the creature discovers them, pops down in front of them and says 'found you'.

"Dean, if you can hear me, I want you to bring Sam back. I'll keep him safe. You go back to your post."

He can't even blink.

"That's an order, son."

His heart is galloping, painfully forcing blood around in his veins. Sam shifts, rolls his body minutely, huddles closer to Dean's body thrown over his. The boots move around, circle, and come right back. Pause. No more words. Finally move away.

He breathes, stilted and not nearly enough but he won't risk drawing the thing's attention. They stay there, weight of the tree pressing down, scent of earth in their nostrils. A growl. Not nearby but still audible. He wriggles forward on his belly, clears the log and reaches down for Sam. A gunshot and a roar and he hauls Sam out.

"We gotta move. Come on, Sam, run!"

More gunshots, thunder in the night, but they don't stop, don't look around. They run. Run and run. Lights of the town ahead and their house closer than that, perched on the outskirts. Feet pounding across the porch and the front door is locked, a shifter with a set of keys?, and they circle around to the side, to where they can climb the tree and reach the bathroom window that doesn't quite latch. They drop into the bathtub, clamber out. He goes to the door but Sam's arms circle his waist and Sam's face burrows into his chest, knocks him off balance. They're a heap on the floor, legs tangled and both shaking, shaking, shaking. He draws Sam closer, mirrors their position beneath that fallen log, pressed together with no space between.

There's no concept of how long they stay like that. When they're done, when his heart rate isn't out of control and Sam's tears have stopped falling, they stand. Go to Sam's bedroom. The streetlight slants through the drapes and Sam's got tears and snot and dirt staining his face and won't let go of Dean when he tries to put him to bed. So he's sitting against the headboard, Sam's arm thrown over his lap, sleeping face buried against his hip, when John cracks the door open. Even from across the room, he can smell the oil and flame clinging to his father's coat. "Did you get them?"

"Yeah, I got it, bud."

"Both of them?" he presses.

His father's eyebrows come together. "What do you mean? We were only hunting the one thing."

"No. Did you get the shifter that was working with it?"

His dad enters the room more fully, comes as far as the bookshelf and no further. "What are you talking about?"

"Sam said you came and got him. Left him in the woods. I figure that's how the things been able to get so many kids. The shapeshifter picks them out, pretends to be the parent and takes them right to the monster. So you got the shifter too, right?"

John's standing with his back to the window, face wreathed in darkness.

"It really was a shifter, right Dad?" Saliva sticks in the back of his throat. "Dad?"

The silence stretches on, a yawning pit he's teetering on the brink of. If he falls into it, he won't come out.

"Yeah, kiddo. It was a shifter."

John leaves and Dean relaxes, pets Sam's hair and watches the door close.


End file.
